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.

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.

And yet, even as she spoke, she knew that she did not wish to come back. not to stay, not to live. She loved the little yellow cottage more than she loved any place on earth. but she was through with it except in her memories.

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!

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

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

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?