But it is not for the perfect vase or the polished gem to choose their owners. - Mary Renault

Quietly, as night shuts down the uncertain prospect of the road ahead, the wheels sink to stillness in the dust of the halting-place, and the reins drop from the driver’s loosened hands. Staying each his hunger on what pasture the place affords them, neither the white horse nor the black reproaches his fellow for drawing their master out of the way. They are far, both of them, from home and lonely, and lengthened by their strife the way has been hard. Now their heads droop side by side till their long manes mingle, and when the voice of the charioteer falls silent they are reconciled for a night in sleep.

A young man sat down beside him on the divan and, without any kind of preliminary, said, ‘Is it a queer book?’
‘No,’ said Laurie.
‘Oh,’ said the young man, on a note of utter deflation. He got up and went away.

Hephaistion had known for many ages that if a god should offer him one gift in all his lifetime, he would choose this. Joy hit him like a lightning-bolt.