They Misspelled 'party.' How Evil Genius Can

We Don't Look At Each Other Anymore. Not Really. Not Since I Pulled Him From That Opium Den. Now When I Look At Him, I See The Addict. And When He Looks At Me, He Sees What He Would Rather Not Remember. I Wish I Could Be His Adored Little Girl Again, Sitting At His Side.

She Loved Attention. It Was Like A Glass Of The Best Champagne—bubbly And Intoxicating—and As With Champagne, She Always Wanted More Of It. Still, She Didn’t Want To Seem Like An Easy Mark. “if You Must Know, I’ve Come To Join A Convent,” Evie Said, Testing Him.

Oh, I've A Love, A True, True Love, Who Waits Upon Yon Shore... And If My Love Won't Be My Love, Then I Will Live No More.

We're All Strangers Connected By What We Reveal, What We Share, What We Take Away--our Stories. I Guess That's What I Love About Books--they Are Thin Strands Of Humanity That Tether Us To One Another For A Small Bit Of Time, That Make Us Feel Less Alone Or Even More Comfortable With Our Aloneness, If Need Be.

Oh, Sure. Of Course, They Say Now That We’ve Got Freud And The Motorcar, God Is Dead.” “he’s Not Dead; Just Very Tired.