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.

Trees have as much individuality as human beings. Not even two spruces are alike. There is always some kink or curve or bend of bough to single each one out from its fellows.

But the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop and that hurts.

I have a little brown cocoon of an idea that may possibly expand into a magnificent moth of fulfilment.

It does not do to laugh at the pangs of youth. They are very terrible because youth has not yet learned that 'this, too, will pass away.

Gilbert, I'm afraid I'm scandalously in love with you.

Look, do you see that poem?' she said suddenly, pointing.