But Anne with her elbows on the window sill, her soft cheek laid against her clasped hands, and her eyes filled with visions, looked out unheedingly across city roof and spire to that glorious dome of sunset sky and wove her dreams of a possible future from the golden tissue of youth's own optimism. All the Beyond was hers, with its possibilities lurking rosily in the oncoming years — each year a rose of promise to be woven into an immortal chaplet.

Wouldn't it be nice if roses could talk? I'm sure they could tell us such lovely things.

Anne laughed and sighed. She felt very old and mature and wise — which showed how young she was.

There is another bend in the road after this. No one knows what will happen.

never write a line you'd be ashamed to read at your own funeral.

I'm just tired of everything…even of the echoes. There is nothing in my life but echoes…echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They're beautiful and mocking.

She had a way of embroidering life with stars.