“At the age of five, Gustav Perle was certain of only one thing: he loved his mother. Her name was Emilie, but everybody addressed her as Frau Perle. (In Switzerland, at that time, after the war, people were formal. You might pass a lifetime without knowing the first name of your nearest neighbour.)”
"When she reached the cabin at nine that night she recognized the moaning chorus of the Rosary: Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, amen. She let herself in and waited on one of the three-legged stools the Irish called creepies. Like babies, the Catholics, babbling as they squeezed their beads. Sister Michael’s head was up, at least, eyes on the little girl, but was she concentrating on her or on the prayers?.”
“When the sun breached the hill that morning it caught for the first time since October the narrow edge of the streambed exposed by a break in the trees. By midmorning the haze had burned off and the light made lenses in the ice that melted themselves beneath the surface. The stream began moving and as the thaw took hold in the leaves clotted on the bank and the mud farther along, the water ran into the shade of birch and maples and coaxed snow into motion as, unexampled in memory, the late-winter warmth became a baking heat all in a day, effecting weeks of return in just hours.”
“'What do you recommend?'Joséphine looked up at the Italian waiter, who stood there ready to take her order. Discouraged by the richness of the menu, she was trying to save herself the effort of having to think. 'I don’t know what you like, Madame.'”