Hill House, She Thought, You're As Hard

It Was One Of Those Winter Days That Suddenly Dream Of Spring, When The Sky Is Blue And Soft And Clear, And The Wind Has Dropped Its Voice And Whispers Instead Of Screaming, And The Sun Is Out And The Trees Look Surprised, And Over Everything There Is The Faintest, Palest Tint Of Green.

It Might Be Suggested, And Not Easily Disproven That Anything, No Matter How Exotic, Can Be Believed By Someone. On The Other Hand, Abstract Belief Is Largely Impossible; It Is The Concrete, The Actuality Of The Cup, The Candle, The Sacrificial Stone, Which Hardens Belief; The Statue Is Nothing Until It Cries, The Philosophy Is Nothing Until The Philosopher Is Martyred.

I Really Think I Shall Commence Chapter Forty-four," He Said, Patting His Hands Together. "i Shall Commence, I Think, With A Slight Exaggeration And Go On From There Into An Outright Lie. Constance, My Dear?" "yes, Uncle Julian?" "i Am Going To Say That My Wife Was A Beautiful Woman.

Hill House, She Thought, You're As Hard To Get Into As Heaven.

On The Moon We Wore Feathers In Our Hair, And Rubies On Our Hands. On The Moon We Had Gold Spoons.