No Blame Should Attach To Telling The

Fiction Is The Great Repository Of The Moral Sense. The Wicked Get Punished.

You Can Never Betray The People Who Are Dead.

Writing Has Freed Me From The Despair Of Living.

That Sun, That Light Had Faded, And She Had Faded With Them. Now She Was As Grey As The Season Itself.

I Am Not A Romantic. I Am A Domestic Animal. I Do Not Sigh And Yearn For Extravagant Displays Of Passion, For The Grand Affair, The World Well Lost For Love. I Know All That, And Know That It Leaves You Lonely. No, What I Crave Is The Simplicity Of Routine. An Evening Walk, Arm In Arm, In Fine Weather. A Game Of Cards. Time For Idle Talk. Preparing A Meal Together.