Naomi Press

getting something for nothing,

The first twenty pages were adorned with a number of little plants

Fancy flower of paper, found in Aqua’s purse

out of spite and pity

After her death in 1883, Van computed that in the course of thirteen years,

Colonel Erminin, a widower, whose liver, he said in a note, was behaving like a pecheneg;

‘Nicest!’

‘Incest,’ said Ada instantly.

‘I give up,’ said Grace. ‘We need a dictionary to check your little inventions.’

‘Are we Mesopotamians?’ asked Lucette.

‘We are Hippopotamians,’ said Van. ‘Come,’ he added, ‘we have not yet ploughed today.’

Endlessly, steadily, delicately, Van would brush his lips against hers, teasing their burning bloom, back and forth, right, left, life, death

What (Ada asks) are eyes anyway? Two holes in the mask of life.