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

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.

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

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

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

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