And the following two paragraphs from the same book left me speechless:

I remained on the ladder, looking at the figurine in my hand. You're wrong, Aunt Josie, I thought. It's not pride I'm feeling. It's another sin. Worse than all the other ones, which are immediate, violent and hot. This one sits inside you quietly and eats you from the inside out. It's the Eighth Deadly Sin. The one God left out. Hope.

I remember staring at the lines. It is true what she says though I never thought of Hope like this.

I wondered if all those things were the best things to have or if it was better to have words and stories. Miss Wilcox had books but no family. Minnie had a family now, but those babies would keep her from reading for a good long time. Some people, like my aunt Josie had neither love nor books. Nobody I knew had both.

What can I say?