I'm finished with something, but I'm not beginning anything. That's wrong. When you finish something, you ought always to begin something new.

The silence in the room had width, height, depth, mass and substance.

One strain could call up the quivering expectancy of Christmas Eve, childhood, joy and sadness, the lonely wonder of a star

We'll just have to find more flowers in the spring. That's when they bloom, tra la.

I'm finished with something, but I'm not beginning anything. That's wrong. When you finish something, you ought always to begin something new.

She tried to act as though it were nothing to go to the library alone. But her happiness betrayed her. Her smile could not be restrained, and it spread from her tightly pressed mouth, to her round cheeks, almost to the hair ribbons tied in perky bows over her ears.

Good things come, but they're never perfect; are they? You have to twist them into something perfect.