The point of good writing is knowing when to stop.

God's in His heaven, alls right with the world', whispered Anne softly.

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

There isn't any such thing as an ordinary life. (92)

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

The night was clear and frosty, all ebony of shadow and silver of snowy slope; big stars were shining over the silent fields; here and there the dark pointed firs stood up with snow powdering their branches and the wind whistling through them.

It's all very well to read about sorrows and imagine yourself living through them heroically, but it's not so nice when you really come to have them, is it?