A Mother Is Always A Mother, Since

His Wedding Gift, Clasped Round My Throat. A Choker Of Rubies, Two Inches Wide, Like An Extraordinarily Precious Slit Throat.

They Will Be Like Shadows, They Will Be Like Wraiths, Gray Members Of A Congregation Of Nightmare; Hark! His Long Wavering Howl . . . An Aria Of Fear Made Audible. The Wolfsong Is The Sound Of The Rending You Will Suffer, In Itself A Murdering.

How Far Does A Pretence Of Feeling, Maintained With Absolute Conviction, Become Authentic?

It Is, Perhaps, A Better Thing To Be Valued Only As An Object Of Passion Than Never To Be Valued At All.

There Was A House We All Had In Common And It Was Called The Past, Even Though We'd Lived In Different Rooms.