But Anne, do you love him?" I asked curiously. The curve of her hood hid all but the corner of her smile. "I am a fool to own it, but I am in a fever for his touch.

She was like a mother to me...and I betrayed as a daughter will betray her mother and yet, never stop loving her.

Only fools wait when their enemies are coming, to see if they may prove to be friends.

He had taken George, my beloved George, from me. And he had taken my other self: Anne.

They say that at the mountain pass he looked back at his kingdom, his beautiful kingdom, and wept, and his mother told him to weep like a woman for what he could not hold as a man.

I am in the interesting position of being sometimes skimmed by the critics and called literature and sometimes called historical fiction.

There are many sorts of love. And when you love a man who is less than you dreamed, you have to make allowances for the difference between a real man and a dream. Sometimes you have to forgive him. Perhaps you even have to forgive him often. But forgiveness often comes with love.