It's the fools that make all the trouble in the world, not the wicked.

It was in the spring that Josephine and I had first loved each other, or, at least, had first come into the full knowledge that we loved. I think that we must have loved each other all our lives, and that each succeeding spring was a word in the revelation of that love, not to be understood until, in the fullness of time, the whole sentence was written out in that most beautiful of all beautiful springs.

But she had long ago learned that when she wandered into the realm of fancy she must go alone. The way to it was by an enchanted path where not even her dearest might follow her.

I'm really a very happy, contented little person in spite of my broken heart.

That's one splendid thing about such affairs — it's so lovely to look back to them.

There must be a limit to the mistakes one person can make, and when I get to the end of them, then I'll be through with them. That's a comforting thought

The world looks like something God had just imaged for his own pleasure, doesn't it?