A country inn is a percolator. News seeps, simmers, and bubbles.
pity runs its course. An hour comes when no hand but your own can build your future.
Each husband gets the infidelity he deserves.
Destiny is thrifty. To weave her tapestry, she uses even the tiniest snips of thread.
Grief is illness. You cannot breathe; you cannot walk or eat or sleep. The sickness is entire, the body and the spirit.
Every door opens to something and it is better to go toward that something than to sit staring at the blank wall of time.