A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: "Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.

...She's understood the power of stories. Their magical ability to refill the wounded part of people.

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.

Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.

But in my humble opinion, a house needs a good party once in a while; remind folks it exists.

In retrospect, it seems like everything in my life led to me becoming a writer. I just didn't realise it at the time.

Oh, there was harm indeed for a young lady flattered by the brief attentions of a handsome man.