She was like a heroine in a novel that she herself was writing the character kept protesting that she was too strong for love and yet the narrator went on describing her desire.

She felt so much aware of her own beauty it seemed inconceivable that everybody else wouldn't notice the difference too.

She was full of some strange energy that morning. Her every movement had purpose and life and she seemed to find satisfaction in every little thing.

She found herself longing for home-not just for the hotel but for New York and all the real novels that she could lose herself in there.

The value of secrets is ever fluctuating although ladies who have been in society for a long time learn that a secret kept can be worth more than a secret told.

They were all dressed in their finest as though life really were some magical stage play in which every moment ought to be illuminated with its own bright spotlight.

I've always believed in savoring the moments. In the end, they are the only things we'll have.