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

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.

We'll just have to find more flowers in the spring. That's when they bloom, tra la.

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.

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

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