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

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

The silence in the room had width, height, depth, mass and substance.

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

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

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.

People were always saying to Margaret, 'Well, Julia sings and Betsy writes. Now what is little Margaret going to do?' Margaret would smile politely, for she was very polite, but privately she stormed to Betsy with flashing eyes, 'I'm not going to do anything. I want to just live. Can't people just live?