I Write This Sitting In The Kitchen

Just To Be In Love Seemed The Most Blissful Luxury I Had Ever Known. The Thought Came To Me That Perhaps It Is The Loving That Counts, Not The Being Loved In Return -- That Perhaps True Loving Can Never Know Anything But Happiness. For A Moment I Felt That I Had Discovered A Great Truth.

...surely I Could Give Him--a Sort Of Contentment... That Isn't Enough To Give. Not For The Giver.

Am I Really Admitting That My Sister Is Determined To Marry A Man She Has Only Seen Once And Doesn't Much Like The Look Of? It Is Half Real And Half Pretense - And I Have An Idea That It Is A Game Most Girls Play When They Meet An Eligible Young Men. They Just...wonder.

There Was A Wonderful Atmosphere Of Gentle Age, A Smell Of Flowers And Beeswax, Sweet Yet Faintly Sour And Musty; A Smell That Makes You Feel Very Tender Towards The Past.

Even A Broken Heart Doesn't Warrant A Waste Of Good Paper.