Slippery bunch, angels, hiding their nasty little sins behind curtsies and compliments, Bibles and badges.

I had led a private life and wanted to die a private death.

Loving an old bachelor is always a no-win situation, and you come to terms with that early on, or you go away.

I really, really, really liked him. I liked the way his story ended with someone else. I liked his voice. I liked that he took existentially fraught free throws. I liked that he was a tenured professor in the Department of Slightly Crooked Smiles with a dual appointment in the Department of Having a Voice That Made My Skin Feel More Like Skin.

But you must give my compliments to him. Yes — I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price, in our language — a something between compliments and — and love — to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? — So many months acquaintance! — But compliments may be sufficient here.

The gaurdian angels of life sometimes fly so high as to be beyond our sight, but they are always looking down upon us.