All Autobiography Is Self-indulgent.

When The Leaves Rustle, They Sound Very Much Like The Stealthy Movement Of A Woman In Evening Dress, And When They Shiver Suddenly, And Fall, And Scatter Away Along The Ground, They Might Be The Patter Of A Woman’s Hurrying Footsteps, And The Mark In The Gravel The Imprint Of A High-heeled Shoe.

All Autobiography Is Self-indulgent.

It Wouldn't Make For Sanity Would It, Living With The Devil.

She Had To Live In This Bright, Red Gabled House With The Nurse Until It Was Time For Her To Die... I Thought How Little We Know About The Feelings Of Old People. Children We Understand, Their Fears And Hopes And Make-believe.

I Would Have Gone Too But I Wanted To Come Straight Back To You.i Kept Thinking Of You, Waiting Here, All By Yourself, Not Knowing What Was Going To Happen.