I don't know how I got to be so sour on life, but I'm constantly in solitary confinement of my own devise, […]

Her who still weepes with spungie eyes, And her who is dry corke, and never cries; I can love her, and her, and you and you, I can love any, so she be not true.

The carrier to Casterbridge came up as Edward stepped into the road, and jumped down from the van to pay toll. . . . The carrier paid his dues.

She says that her first novel was born out of a profound love of medieval history, but I fear that what she really loves is historical romance, fantasy, and bodice-rippery.