I want - I want - I want - was all that she could think about - but just what this real want was she did not know.

But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes.

Her face felt like it was scattered in pieces and she could not keep it straight. The feeling was a whole lot worse than being hungry for any dinner, yet it was like that. I want--I want--I want--was all that she could think about--but just what this real want was she did no know.

All we can do is go around telling the truth.

I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.

But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes. The heart of a hurt child can shrink so that forever afterward it is hard and pitted as the seed of a peach. Or again, the heart of such a child may fester and swell until it is a misery to carry within the body, easily chafed and hurt by the most ordinary things.

Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty.