“She climbed out of the car, and instantly his entire body wakened to her proximity. he whispered, lifting a hand to touch her cheek.”

“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
O, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek!”

“Clary," he whispered. There was a thump, and she realized he had fallen to his kees by the side of her bed. She didn't move, but her body tightened. His voice was a whisper. "Clary, it's me. It's me.”

“I’m not strong enough for this,” he whispered in her ear—like he didn’t want anyone to hear that coming out of his mouth. Ever. Running her hands up his powerful back, she held him just as hard. “But I am.”

“She weighed no more than a feather as he lifted her, but he teased her, saying, "You weigh more than you look."
"You are weaker than you look," she immediately whispered.”

“I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips.”

“For an instant she felt his touch on her cheek then he stepped back. There that was my ration for all eternity. People have died for less I dare say.”

“There was a basket at her feet. She reached into it and lifted out the head of a young woman, a marquise. She wore Bourbon white to her death, but wears the tricolor now - white cheeks, blue lips, red dripping from her neck. Long live the revolution.”

“The instant he knew he loved her, she slipped down his body and out of his arms.”

“He ran the back of his hand up her cheek, with the pretense of wiping away sweat.”