“Victor Noir. He was a journalist shot by Pierre Bonaparte," St. Clair says, as if that explains anything. He pulls The Hat up off his eyes. "The statue on his grave is supposed to help...fertility." "His wang us rubbed shiny,"… — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“Anna?" "Yeah?" He pauses. "Never mind." "What?" "Nothing." But his tone is definitely not nothing. I turn to him, and his eyes are closed. His skin is pale and tired. "What?" I ask again,sitting up. St. Clair opens his eyes,… — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“This warmth over the telephone. Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place? Bridgette used to be home to… — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“I wasn't being a git. I wasn't even being a twat, or a wanker, or any of your other bleeding Briticisms -” — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“You said on my birthday that you were afraid of being alone, but I’ve been here this whole time. This whole time.” — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“Lola: Do you think things have to be easy? For it to work? Cricket: NO. I mean, yes, but... sometimes there are... extenuating circumstances.… — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“Thanks. I forgot how to flip off the English. I'll use the correct hand gesture next time." "My pleasure. Always happy to educate.” — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“Beautiful. He called me beautiful! But wait. I don't like Dave. Do I like Dave?” — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“We're enveloped in pitch black. "Wait here," I whisper. "Are you getting your ax?" "Handcuffs." "Kinky. But, okay, I'll try it.” — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
“And, suddenly, I want to touch him. Not a push, or a shove, or even a friendly hug. I want to feel the creases… — Stephanie Perkins Copy Share Image
