One Situation – Maybe One Alone –

But There Was Not A Moment When She Did Not See Carol In Her Mind, And All She Saw, She Seemed To See Through Carol. That Evening, The Dark Flat Streets Of New York, The Tomorrow Of Work, The Milk Bottle Dropped And Broken In Her Sink, Became Unimportant. She Flung Herself On Her Bed And Drew A Line With A Pencil On A Piece Of Paper. And Another Line, Carefully, And Another. A World Was Born Around Her, Like A Bright Forest With A Million Shimmering Leaves.

I Know You Have It In You, Guy," Anne Said Suddenly At The End Of A Silence, "the Capacity To Be Terribly Happy.

Honesty, For Me, Is Usually The Worst Policy Imaginable.

And No Book, And Possibly No Painting, When It Is Finished, Is Ever Exactly Like The First Dream Of It.

Honestly, I Don't Understand Why People Get So Worked Up About A Little Murder!