The tarantula sheds her skin once a year, the narrator explained, then seals herself away behind a wall of silk until her new skin has hardened. Only then can she re-emerge and start to feed again.

We used to say that we loved each other but, looking back, I think we said it more because we felt we should.

We ran all the way into town. We didn’t talk. We didn’t look back.

In cities, after all, you are always within screaming distance of a psychopath.

She took out an Ian McEwan book, flicked through it and said, ‘I love this. I can’t bear people who don’t read. I think they must have something wrong with them, don’t you?’ ‘I guess so.’ ‘Books, music, art, films.’ She held up her glass. ‘Good wine. It’s what life’s all about.’ I held up my own glass. ‘To books, music, art, films and wine.

You’re mad. Rats don’t try and get in through closed doors!

She was both his compass and his map, and he would be lost on his own. Lost in the darkness.

If I enter a house with no books it makes me uneasy. I wonder what’s wrong with the people who live there.

Too Tired To Argue. If she ever wrote a book about parenting, that would be the title.

She had seen Daniel here earlier. He had come onto the ward, sat beside her bed. As soon as she saw him coming she had shut her eyes, pretending to be asleep. She knew exactly what he would say and she didn’t want to hear it. Seeing him reminded her of why she felt like this.