I shall weave a suit of leaves. At once. With acorns for buttons.

So long as you write it away regularly nothing can really hurt you.

She had taken to wondering lately, during these swift-counted years, what had been done with all those wasted summer days; how could she have spent them so wantonly? I am foolish, she told herself early every summer, I am very foolish; I am grown up now and know the values of things. Nothing is ever really wasted, she believed sensibly, even one's childhood, and then each year, one summer morning, the warm wind would come down the city street where she walked and she would be touched with the little cold thought: I have let more time go by.

I really think I shall commence chapter forty-four," he said, patting his hands together. "I shall commence, I think, with a slight exaggeration and go on from there into an outright lie. Constance, my dear?" "Yes, Uncle Julian?" "I am going to say that my wife was a beautiful woman.

February, when the days of winter seem endless and no amount of wistful recollecting can bring back any air of summer.

All I could think of when I got a look at the place from the outside was what fun it would be to stand out there and watch it burn down.

I'm going to put death in all their food and watch them die.