I much prefer whining to counting my blessings.

She is one of those ladies who is more beautiful at sixty than she could possibly have been at twenty. (how I hope someone says that about me someday)!

Do you arrange your books alphabetically? (I hope not.)

I believe I am becoming pathetic. I'll go further, I believe that I am in love with a flower-growing, wood-carving quarryman/carpenter/pig farmer. In fact, I know I am. Perhaps tomorrow I will become entirely miserable at the thought that he doesn't love me back - may, even, care for Remy- but at this precise moment I am succumbing to euphoria. My head and stomach feel quite odd.

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

We read books, talked books, argued over books and became dearer and dearer to one another.

After all, what's good enough for Austen ought to be good enough for anyone.