You Could Give Me The Past,“ He

Clary?” Jace Tilted His Head To The Side, Studying Her Face. “you Do—you Still Love Me, Don’t You?” “i Love Jace Lightwood,” She Said. “i Don’t Know Who You Are.

He Looks," Simon Had Once Said To Isabelle, "like He's Thinking About Something Deep And Meaningful, But If You Ask Him What It Is, He'll Punch You In The Face.

What’s That Poem Again?” Will, Who Had Been Twirling His Empty Teacup Around His Fingers, Stood Up Straight And Declaimed: “each Spake Words Of High Disdain, And Insult To His Heart’s Best Brother—” “oh, By The Angel, Will, Do Be Quiet,” Said Charlotte, Standing Up. “i Must Go And Write A Letter To Aloysius Starkweather That Drips Remorse And Pleading. I Don’t Need You Distracting Me.” And, Gathering Up Her Skirts, She Hurried From The Room. “no Appreciation For The Arts,” Will Murmured, Setting His Teacup Down.

Shutting Your Eyes And Pretending Something's Not Happening Doesn't Make It Not True, Jace.

Well I'd Certainly Hate To Interrupt Your Pleasant Night Stroll With My Sudden Death.