“She would grab whatever she could -a look, a whisper, a moan - to salvage from perishing, to perserve. But time is most unforgivving of fires, and she couldn't, in the end, save it all.”

“Above all, she wanted to look as though she had not given the matter a moment's thought, and that would take time.”

“And all the time she felt the reflection of his hopelessness in her. She couldn't quite, quite love in hoplessness. And he, being hopeless, couldn't ever love at all.”

“She wasn't in love but she would love him, if that would save her.”

“In her way, she was a hard one. Faith in any sort of natural justice was nothing but a night light; she knew of that. Whatever she did, she would end the same way with everyone does: flat on her back with a tube in her nose, wondering, "Is this all?”

“She grabbed his arm. "Let it be, son!" she cried. "That child ain't hurt!"
"Not hurt! You look into her eyes and tell me she ain't hurt!”

“The rain battered the cottage. Valkyrie risked a look up at Skulduggery.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“It’s a box,” he whispered back.
“What kind of box?”
“A wooden one.”
She gave him a look.”

“She couldn't remember the last time she hugged someone, really hugged someone.”

“She couldn't be on his wavelength all the time. That's all. When you could recognize that and deal with it, you were on your way to an adult relationship.”

“She had thought she was going to save her mother, and now there was going to be nothing for her to do but sit by her mother's bedside, hold her limp hand, and home someone else, somewhere else, would be able to do what she couldn't.”