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“I mean it,' he said. 'I love your nose.' Love. He'd said it. Though only for her nose ... Her eyes grew larger, wider behind her eyeglasses. She looked afraid, yet full of hope. She was dying to believe him about something she couldn't see in herself. 'I don't like my nose,' she said. 'You're so hard on yourself. I think your nose is the best nose I've ever met.' She gave a little snort. 'You see? The best nose. Honestly. You aren't supposed to notice a woman's nose.' 'Why not?' 'It's supposed to blend in, be part of the overall beauty of her well-proportioned face.' 'Yours is part of your overall beauty.' She made a face at him, complete with tongue stuck out.”

“Tied up a lot of women, have you?" He raised one eyebrow, whatever that meant. "A bit odd, are you?" She was being sarcastic, trying to taunt him into a sense of guilt. While perhaps bursting any bubble in herself of misguided, soft-hearted concern for a man with sad eyes and complicated wealth. Though his sexual inclinations were perhaps not the wisest of barbs to do either. He looked down at her, speculative. "Difficult to say." He actually answered the question seriously. "Legally? Decidedly. But then British laws on the subject are so guilt-ridden I'm surprised we've propagated as a race." He mad a small, grim smile. "How delightful we're having this conversation. And what is it you like?”