...surely I could give him--a sort of contentment... That isn't enough to give. Not for the giver.

Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.

... for I know I shall be interrupted-- I shall want to be, really, because life is too exciting to sit still for long.

How I wish I lived in a Jane Austen novel!

What is it about the English countryside — why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?

There is something revolting about the way girls' minds so often jump to marriage long before they jump to love.

Only half a page left now. Shall I fill it with 'I love you, I love you'-- like father's page of cats on the mat? No. Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.