Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

We Can See The Film Stars Of Yesterday In Yesterday’s Films, Hear The Voices Of Poest And Singers On A Record, Keep The Plays Of Dead Dramatists Upon Our Bookshelves, But The Actor Who Holds His Audience Captive For One Brief Moment Upon A Lighted Stage Vanishes Forever When The Curtain Falls.

Here Was A Silence Between Them For A Moment, And She Wondered If All Women, When In Love, Were Torn Between Two Impulses, A Longing To Throw Modesty And Reserve To The Winds And Confess Everything, And An Equal Determination To Conceal The Love Forever, To Be Cool, Aloof, Utterly Detached, To Die Rather Than Admit A Thing So Personal, So Intimate.

Why Did Dogs Make One Want To Cry? There Was Something So Quiet And Hopeless About Their Sympathy. Jasper, Knowing Something Was Wrong, As Dogs Always Do. Trunks Being Packed. Cars Being Brought To The Door. Dogs Standing With Drooping Tails, Dejected Eyes. Wandering Back To Their Baskets In The Hall When The Sound Of The Car Dies Away.

How Pleasant,' Dona Said, Peeling Her Fruit; 'the Rest Of Us Can Only Run Away From Time To Time, And However Much We Pretend To Be Free, We Know It Is Only For A Little While - Our Hands And Our Feet Are Tied.

We Are All Ghosts Of Yesterday, And The Phantom Of Tomorrow Awaits Us Alike In Sunshine Or In Shadow, Dimly Perceived At Times, Never Entirely Lost.