Isn't it mysterious to begin a new journal like this? I can run my fingers through the fresh clean pages but I cannot guess what the writing on them will be.

The wastes of snow on the hill were ghostly in the moonlight. The stars were piercingly bright.

She thought of the library, so shining white and new; the rows and rows of unread books; the bliss of unhurried sojourns there and of going out to a restaurant, alone, to eat.

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

Betsy returned to her chair, took off her coat and hat, opened her book and forgot the world again.

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

Was life always like that? she wondered. A game of hide and seek in which you only occasionally found the person you wanted to be?