Worrying is one of my few forms of prayer.

I'm sorry I'm young," Deborah answered with a bitterness that was half prose. "We have a right to be as crazy as anyone else." The second part was more a plea, and to her surprise the superbly inhuman fighter smiled softly and said, "Yes ... I suppose that's true, though I never thought of it in those terms before.

What do you do with mother love and mother wit when the babies are grown and gone away?

She now knew that the death she feared might not be a physical one, that it could be death of the will, the soul, the mind, the laws, and thus not death, but a perpetual dying.

The creative strength is good enough and deep enough to bring itself to flower and to grow in spite of this sickness.

I have found this to be true, that one sin begets a dozen others.

Worrying is one of my few forms of prayer.