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“I imagine I shall hunt orchids, in one fashion or another, until the day I die. My father considers the whole thing a mania, and perhaps he's right." "A mania," she repeated. "Why, that's putting it rather strongly!" James shrugged. "I'm not so sure. If something brings you more grief and heartache than reward and pleasure, yet you persist in the endeavour anyway, then how else might one describe it?”

“When my mama died," he said, without looking up, "the adults were always saying it would get easier." Beatrice knew that James's mother was dead, but he never talked about her, and she was surprised to hear him do so now. "That was a while ago," he went on, "And it's still ... well, I miss her. And I hate that she's not here. I feel like there's a big central piece that's been ripped out of me. I think the grown-ups lie to try to make you feel better, but it isn't true. It doesn't get easier. But you do get stronger, and that's ... well. It's something.”

“Alas," the Spider Queen said softly, "life needs dark leaves in the wreath. There cannot be true joy without sorrow, or real happiness without loss. They come as a pair. It is simply how it must be, if one is to live a full life. Take my own wreath, for example." She pointed at a particularly striking one made up of foliage so dark it was almost purple and black in places, but brightened with spectacular bursts of scarlet poinsettia. "I first saw the poinsettia in Mexico," she said. "The Euphorbia pulcherrima, to give it its botanical name, but it's also known as a 'Christmas star' because of its red pigment, so vibrant and bold. I would not give up my dark leaves if it meant losing the poinsettia," she said.”