Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps . . . perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.

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

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

There are many worse friends than the soft, silent, furry, cat-folk.

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

I have really done so few bad things that they have to keep harping on the old ones [.]

I know I chatter on far too much... but if you only knew how many things I want to say and don't. Give me SOME credit.