She had a way of embroidering life with stars.

I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers,' said Priscilla. 'Then your soul is a golden narcissus,' said Anne, 'and Diana's is like a red, red rose. Jane's is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet.' 'And our own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart,' finished Priscilla.

But was anything in life, Anne asked herself wearily, like one's imagination of it?

Life owes me something more than it has paid me and I'm going out to collect it.

It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable.

Kindred spirits alone do not change with the changing years.

She seemed to walk in an atmosphere of things about to happen.