Beautiful December Grapes, Blue As Plums, Every

The Only Virtue On Which I Pride Myself Is My Self-doubt; When A Writer Loses Her Self-doubt, The Time Has Come To Lay Aside Her Pen.

Beautiful December Grapes, Blue As Plums, Every Grape A Little Skinful Of Sweet, Tasteless Water

A Happy Childhood Is Poor Preparation For Human Contacts.

The Day After That Wedding Night I Found That A Distance Of A Thousand Miles, Abyss And Discovery And Irremediable Metamorphosis, Separated Me From The Day Before.

It Is Wise To Apply The Oil Of Refined Politeness To The Mechanisms Of Friendship.