It doesn't take long to write things of which you know nothing. When you write of actual things, it takes longer, because you have to live them first.

Is it not so that a son what is bad to his mother is bad to his wife?

'Dear God,' she prayed, 'let me be something every minute of every hour of my life.'

She had heard Papa sing so many songs about the heart; the heart that was breaking - was aching - was dancing -was heavy laden - that leaped for joy - that was heavy in sorrow - that turned over - that stood still. She really believed the heart actually did those things.

I'll not punish you for having an imagination.

She had had the pain; it had been like being boiled alive in scalding oil and not being able to die to get free of it

There's a tree that grows in Brooklyn. Some people call it the Tree of Heaven. No matter where its seed falls, it makes a tree which struggles to reach the sky. It grows in boarded-up lots and out of neglected rubbish heaps. It grows up out of cellar gratings. It is the only tree that grows out of cement. It grows lushly . . . survives without sun, water, and seemingly without earth. It would be considered beautiful except that there are too many of it.