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She knew me then, at the beginning of ourselves, and she knew me now, here at the end, when she did not even know herself.
Finch always said there were certain places where it was easier to tell stories, and to hear them: around a fire at night, in the mist at dawn, on a porch at dusk. In-between places, balanced on the border between familiar and strange.
鈥淓veryone thinks you get sick because you begin to change, but it鈥檚 the opposite: you change because you get sick. Because you have to.鈥
鈥淭he wheel turns, Sir John, but so do we.鈥
love is whatever you鈥檙e willing to kill for.
Nothing grows on a grave while you鈥檙e standing on it.
But she鈥檇 been willing to kill for me, and so she must have loved me, after all. As I loved May, as Sir John loved his wife, as God loved the world: with blood on our hands.
