The word Depression faded from the American air, but in her it would never fade completely, she knew that. (chapter Five, p177) - Jo Sinclair

The same liquor, the same scar tissue, the same fear-sound of [his] cough flying into the Ballroom: for [her], everything had seemed reiteration out of the ghostly series of yesterdays. Only she was different. Everything seemed blurred and unformed wood, only she chiseled out into actuality, the need of body, the lips shaped to the sound of longing.( p261)

The first spring after the death is unbearable. Its inexorable, complete awakening. Its compulsive memories. Its intolerable mockery of beauty.

A beautiful thing happened...Her loneliness was gone. Even the night time was less piercing for the happiness of the day preceding it, the day that was so filled with a presence, a little living possession who changed excitingly from week to (book 2 chapter 3)