“He'd kept every note she'd written him, and kept his three or four favourites in the envelope in his pocket, always. And the envelope was gone. [...] "What's wrong?" said Hava, who was watching him with rising impatience. What was wrong was that Giddon was realizing, with a bright white clarity he'd never had before, that a person did not keep notes like that from a friend, carrying them around like something precious, like treasure, for no reason. It wasn't normal, it wasn't a routine thing to do, and Giddon had never wanted to be Bitterblue's confidant and counselor when she searched for a husband. He'd loved her.”