“She loved him more than ever. And not because shed scoured file after file of reports and summaries and data and photographs. Not because he was the dreamy, untouchable Carswell Thorne that shed imagined kissing on the banks of a starlit river while fireworks exploded overhead and violins played in the background. Now he was the Carswell Thorne who had given her strength in the desert. Who had come for her when she was kidnapped. Who had kissed her when hope was lost and death was imminent.” — Marissa Meyer
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