Diana felt she was beginning to understand why, in all those novels she read, the headiest loves were the loves that couldn't be.

She found herself longing for home-not just for the hotel but for New York and all the real novels that she could lose herself in there.

She thought of Henry and Diana on the stoop gazing at each other with the confusion and sadness of two puppies who have just stumbled into their first puddle and not yet come to understand what has happened to them and found that she wanted to lie extravagantly.

The first stab of love is like a sunset, a blaze of color -- oranges, pearly pinks, vibrant purples...

It was like the color of his eyes, she supposed - not quite one shade or another, and utterly unlike anyone else's.

The first stab of love is like a sunset, a blaze of color...