“Oooh," Bex said throwing an arm around my shoulders. "I want one."
Cammie: "They're not puppies.”

“Is this your feller?”
“No, not really,” I say, and Peter throws his arm around my shoulder and says, “Yes, sir. I'm her feller”

“Five hundred souls.
I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.”

“They might be kittens," she said hopefully.
"They're stalking us."
"They might be shy."
"I don't think it's kittens, Valkyrie."
"Puppies, then?”

“It was on my fifth birthday that Papa put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'Remember, my son, if you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.”

““Why do we stop for the greystones?”
“Tradition, my boy,” he said grandly, throwing his arms wide. “And superstition. They are one and the same, anyway.””

“I'm of a fearsome mind to throw my arms around every living librarian who crosses my path, on behalf of the souls they never knew they saved.”

“But I think this: that whatever prices I've paid, whatever sorrows I shoulder, well, I have blessings, too. Not just my family now, but the others-the ones who have died… They're with me still. They're here…”

“I remember when humor was gentle pokes. I used to call it 'arm around the shoulder' humor. Now they go for the jugular and they take no prisoners. It's mean, mean stuff.”

“Oooh! Stop that. When you smile at me I want all of it."
"What?" He looked confused”