Over the tops of it, beginning to dusk under a young white moon, trailed a wavering ghost of smoke, and at the end of it I came upon the Pocket Hunter making a dry camp in the friendly scrub.
Mary Hunter AustinThe utmost the American novelist can hope for, if he hopes at all to see his work included in the literature of his time, is that it may eventually be found to be along in the direction of the growing tip of collective consciousness. Preeminently the novelist's gift is that of access to the collective mind.
Mary Hunter AustinWhen a woman ceases to alter the fashion of her hair, you guess that she has passed the crisis of her experience.
Mary Hunter Austin