He had no imagination either-fatal for one engaged in child-rearing

Do you suppose the St. Swithin's furnace-man was my one true love? Since I never spoke to him, it seems unlikely, but at least it was a passion unscathed by disappointment.

All my life I thought that the story was over when the hero and heroine were safely engaged -- after all, what's good enough for Jane Austen ought to be good enough for anyone. But it's a lie. The story is about to begin, and every day will be a new piece of the plot.

Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true.

My worries travel around in my head on their well worn path

He had no imagination either-fatal for one engaged in child-rearing

I hope, too, that my book will illuminate my belief that love of art - be it poetry, storytelling, painting, sculpture, or music - enables people to transcend any barrier man has yet devised.