Breakfast at Tiffany's
Like many people with a bold fondness for volunteering personal information, anything that suggested a direct question, a pinning-down, put her on guard (3.23).
Her cheek came to rest against my shoulder, a warm damp weight. "Why are you crying?" She sprang back, sat up. "Oh, for God's sake," she said, starting for the window and the fire escape, "I hate snoops" (3.58).
"We sort of just took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's an independent and, so am I" (4.52).