Would there be trees if we didn't see them?

If only she could put them together, she felt, write them out in some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things.

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.

It's my choice, to choose how to live my life.

As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.

Nothing could be slow enough, nothing lasts too long. No pleasure could equal, she thought, straightening the chairs, pushing in one book on the shelf, this having done with the triumphs of youth, lost herself in the process of living, to find it with a shock of delight, as the sun rose, as the day sank. Many a time had she gone, at Barton when they were all talking, to look at the sky; seen it between peoples shoulders at dinner; seen it in London when she could not sleep. She walked to the window.

Second hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack.