To believe in a child is to believe in the Future.
She had an unequalled gift, especially pen in hand, of squeezing big mistakes into small opportunities.
It was the way the autumn day looked into the high windows as it waned; the way the red light, breaking at the close from under a low sombre sky, reached out in a long shaft and played over old wainscots, old tapestry, old gold, old colour.
When you forget to eat, you know you're alive.
There's no more usual basis of union than mutual misunderstanding.
She had her own way of doing all that she did, and this is the simplest description of a character which, although by no means without liberal motions, rarely succeeded in giving an impression of suavity.