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.

I don't want to be married just to be married.

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

‎What a blight that woman is. Do you happen to know why? I lean toward a malignant fairy at her christening.

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

In a good mood I call my hair Chestnut with Gold Glints. In a bad mood, I call it mousy brown

His writings have made me his friend.