Behind them in the garden the little stone house brooded among the shadows. It was lonely but not forsaken. It had not yet done with dreams and laughter and the joy of life; there were to be future summers for the little stone house; meanwhile, it could wait. And over the river in purple durance the echoes bided their time.

I wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial.

I'm not a bit changed - not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real me - back here - is just the same.

We are both going to pray that we may live together all our lives and die the same day.

Mrs. Spencer said it was wicked of me to talk like that, but I didn’t mean to be wicked. It’s so easy to be wicked without knowing it, isn’t it?

There be three gentle and goodlie things, To be here, To be together, And to think well of one another.

Gossip, as usual, was one-third right and two-thirds wrong.