She had never before minded being alone. Now she dreaded it. When she was alone now she felt so dreadfully alone.

That is one consolation when you are poor—there are so many more things you can imagine about.

I've just been imagining that it was really me you wanted after all and that I was to stay here for ever and ever. It was a great comfort while it lasted. But the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have to stop and that hurts.

It’s so much more romantic to end a story up with a funeral than a wedding.

Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.

We are never half so interesting when we have learned that language is given us to enable us to conceal our thoughts.

Isn't it terrible the way some unworthy folks are loved, while others that deserve it far more, you'd think, never get much affection?