I read *old* novels. The reason is simple. I prefer proper endings.

Our clients' faces, with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book lover.

The funeral was over, at last I could cry. Except that I couldn't. My tears, kept in too long, had fossilized. They would have to stay in forever now.

What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney?

One gets so used to one's own horrors, one forgets how they must seem to other people.

But there can be no secrets in a house where there are children.

There are times when the human face and body can express the yearning of the heart so accurately that you can, as they say, read them like a book. Do not abandon me.