Babies, babies, babies. Why did God make so many babies? But no, God didn't make them. Stupid people made them.

He had never known such gallantry as the gallantry of Scarlett O'Hara going forth to conquer the world in her mother's velvet curtains and the tail feathers of a rooster.

And apologies, once postponed, become harder and harder to make, and finally impossible.

In a weak moment, I have written a book.

Take my handkerchief, Scarlett. Never, at any crisis of your life, have I known you to have a handkerchief.

So it was true! A pain slashed at her heart as savagely as a wild animal's fangs.

I'll think of it tomorrow, at Tara. I can stand it then. Tomorrow, I'll think of some way to get him back. After all, tomorrow is another day.