"I don't know," Leslie said again, while with one detached part of her mind she wondered why she was saying this; but she had never been so sure of anything in her life. "How do we know how things would look from the perspective of more lives than one? It's possible that for some reason you felt you needed to learn compassion for the handicapped; perhaps you felt you had been insensitive to the needs of someone. Or perhaps Chrissy, for some reason, felt that she needed to learn the lesson of being something other than perfect—a lesson of humility, perhaps, or of helplessness—and she came to you because you were the right parent."
Monday, March 7, 2016
The Inheritor - Pg 139
The Inheritor - Pg 136
They were deep in conversation about the operas of Gluck and Handel.
If there was a ghost, could it survive layers of fresh paint, and the attentions of young cheerful people?
The Inheritor - Pg 128
As she finished the Bach, she heard a tiny spray of notes, like an echo from a harpsichord, and thought of Miss Margrave. Was she really pleased to have two women who shared her interests in the house she had loved? She told herself that she did not for one moment believe Rainbow's story, but it was pleasant to imagine the soft echo of Alison Margrave's harpsichord in the room she had loved.
The Inheritor - Pg 107
Looking at him kneeling by the carton, his hair windblown, Leslie thought again that she really enjoyed him; she bent and kissed him quickly on the forehead.
The Inheritor - Pg 105
Last night I met upon the stair
A little man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today;
Gee, how I wish he'd go away.
The Inheritor - Pg 79
All Leslie could do for her now was to listen to them—and it was a crime to live in a society where people had to pay somebody to listen to their troubles—but at least she listened conscientiously.
The Inheritor - Pg 77
She knew it was the unstated message between all parents and all counselors: "Here is this son or daughter of mine who is not behaving the way I want her to. Take her and make her over into the kind of son or daughter I want her to be!"
The Inheritor - Pg 70
Frodo. She wondered what his parents had christened him. Probably Melvin, or something worse. Then, for an unexpected instant, it was as if a film dropped from Leslie's eyes and she saw him as the girl had seen him, an elvish creature incongruously indoors, a wild thing; she could almost see the shadow of antlers over his brow. Then the flash was gone, and he was only an outlandishly costumed youngster again. He waved to the girl.
The Inheritor - Pg 68
"That's why I'm so crazy about the Conservatory. Even old Whittington. He's nuts but he cares about things, even if what he cares about is a little crazy."
The Inheritor - Pg 46
She had had to come to terms with the knowledge that she was psychic; but this was not the terrifying thing it had been when she saw Juanita García, bloody and violated, under a drainage ditch. It was the faintest whisper of sound, almost music. A benevolent presence; an old woman ready to die, struck down quickly by a stroke or heart attack at her beloved instrument. The very way a musician would wish to go, surely.
The Inheritor - Pg 31
"I hoped you would want to be part of that whole structure. To be—" he hesitated, searching for words, "to be half of a marriage; not a loose partnership of two independent people jogging along side by side until they find somebody they like better."
The Inheritor - Pg 31
He didn't laugh. He pushed the wineglass away, staring at his plate. His hands were long and handsome, the fingers muscular and efficient. Sensuous, too, she thought, then hardened herself against the memory which could weaken her to the very core of her being.
The Inheritor - Pg 29
Our bodies fit too perfectly. That's why we never get to talk about serious things.
The Inheritor - Pg 8
A crackle of the dried juniper branches she had gathered in the Berkeley hills, which slowly took flame and shot up with a cheery roar, driving back the dank mist. She stood with her hands stretched to the kindly warmth; but outside, the windows were so white she could not see the garden. She felt the chill from the open window and went to close it. Fog was beautiful.
When it stayed outside where it belonged.
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