You're Tearin' My Guts Out, Claire.

Sometimes,' He Whispered At Last, 'sometimes, I Dream I Am Singing, And I Wake From It With My Throat Aching.' He Couldn't See Her Face, Or The Tears That Prickled At The Corners Of Her Eyes. 'what Do You Sing?' She Whispered Back. She Heard The Shush Of The Linen Pillow As He Shook His Head. 'no Song I've Ever Heard, Or Know,' He Said Softly. 'but I Know I'm Singing It For You.

When You're Reading, You're Not Where You Are; You're In The Book. By The Same Token, I Can Write Anywhere.

We Have Nothing Now Between Us, Save - Respect, Perhaps. And I Think That Respect Has Maybe Room For Secrets, But Not For Lies.

He Shook His Head, Absorbed In One Of His Feats Of Memory, Those Brief Periods Of Scholastic Rapture Where He Lost Touch With The World Around Him, Absorbed Completely In Conjuring Up Knowledge From All Its Sources.

I'm Afraid That My Wife Picked Up A Number Of Colorful Expressions From The Yanks And Such, Frank Offered, With A Nervous Smile. True, I Said, Gritting My Teeth As I Wrapped A Water-soaked Napkin About My Hand. Men Tend To Be Very Colorful When You're Picking Shrapnel Out Of Them.