As if on cue, Fiona appeared in another of the ballroom's multiple doorways. 'Beatrice! Oliver! How many times have I told you no skating in the house? I just had these floors refinished.'
'So that's why it's extra slippery today,' mused Oliver. 'Cool.

Do you care about your image?' Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I was mentally kicking myself. He'd been kidding around, and meanwhile I sounded like an afternoon special. But he didn't seem to mind.
'Sure. It's my armor.'
'Your what?' The WALK sign flashed, and he put a hand on my elbow as we crossed the street. And yes, even that faint pressure on that small spot made my entire arm tingle.
'My armor. You know. Self-protective camouflage. Everybody has an armor. Even you, I bet, even though I still haven't figured out what form yours takes.

When sleep leaves the body like smoke and man, sated with secrets, drives the overworked nag of quarrel out of its stall, then the fire-breathing union begins anew . . .

I keep going over a sentence. I nag it, gnaw it, pat and flatter it.

Nagging is the repetition of unpalatable truths.

The southwest corner is just bloodied. Roads are like skating rinks. It's just catastrophic.