“It is one of the great arts of the human soul," Ezekiel said to himself. Her hand on the door, Quincy shifted and looked back at her uncle's profile. "What is?""Staying with someone. Companionship is one of the great arts of the human soul.”

“It is one of the great arts of the human soul," Ezekiel said to himself. Her hand on the door, Quincy shifted and looked back at her uncle's profile. "What is?""Staying with someone. Companionship is one of the great arts of the human soul.”

“If she could walk away, she would; her pride demanded at least that much from her. But Quincy knew that her heart beat with the rhythm of the presses in the back room, that her blood ran black with ink, and that her mind filled with reams of numbers and projections and plans. The Q was Quincy's only vital organ, so she would play the game.”

“It is one of the great arts of the human soul," Ezekiel said to himself. Her hand on the door, Quincy shifted and looked back at her uncle's profile. "What is?""Staying with someone. Companionship is one of the great arts of the human soul.”