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

It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.

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.

I cannot remember back to a year in which I did not consider myself to be a writer, and the younger I was the bigger that capital 'W.

Do you girls have hope chests?' Lloyd asked. We certainly do.' I don't,' said Betsy. 'My husband and I are going to use paper plates and napkins.' Poor Joe!' Lucky Larry!

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?

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