But as we do not light up our houses with our brightest lamps for all comers, so neither did she emit from her eyes their brightest sparks till special occasions for such shining had arisen.

It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.

She was pretty enough to make a preacher kick a hole in a stained-glass window.

She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.

A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.

This really is not Our Lady from the Gospel.

When she opened her eyes, Veronika did not think "this must be heaven". Heaven would never use a fluorescent tube to light a room, and the pain — which started a fraction of a second later — was typical of the Earth. Ah, that Earth pain — unique, unmistakable.

She could only realize that she herself — her present self — was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes.

She wore a dress Ronan thought looked like a lampshade. Whatever sort of lamp it belonged on, Gansey clearly wished he had one. Ronan wasn't a fan of lamps.

She had an inside and an outside now and suddenly she knew how not to mix them.

A light here required a shadow there.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhal'd and went to heaven.

It was as though she was an exile from a world that saw things her way

She too was standing in the lamp’s raw light. Her cheeks looked hollow, her lips too red, too bold.