She did not care very much for other little girls, but if she had plenty of books she could console herself.

In the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves - nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them - the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of Eggs. If there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an Egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end... there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air.

Imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like. How they crouched by the fire which blazed and leaped and made much of itself in the little grate. How they removed the covers of the dishes, and found rich, hot savory soup, which was a meal in itself, and sandwiches and toast and muffins enough for both of them.

She liked books more than anything else, and was, in fact, always inventing stories of beautiful things and telling them to herself.

Two worst things as can happen to a child is never to have his own way - or always to have it.

What you have to do with your mind, when your body is miserable, is to make it think of something else.

Of course there must be lots of Magic in the world, but people don't know what it is like or how to make it.