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

In silence the three of them looked at the sunset and thought about God.

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.

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?

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.

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

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.