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

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.

You might as well learn right now, you two, that the poorest guide you can have in life is what people will say.

You have two numbers in your age when you are ten. It's the beginning of growing up.

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

When there are boys you have to worry about how you look, and whether they like you, and why they like another girl better, and whether they're going to ask you to something or other. It's a strain.

Betsy. The great war is on but I hope ours is over. Please come home. Joe.