The Process Of Giving Is Without Limits.

We Came In The Wind Of The Carnival. A Wind Of Change, Or Promises. The Merry Wind, The Magical Wind, Making March Hares Of Everyone, Tumbling Blossoms And Coat-tails And Hats; Rushing Towards Summer In A Frenzy Of Exuberance.

Happiness. Simple As A Glass Of Chocolate Or Tortuous As The Heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

She Always Had That About Her, That Look Of Otherness, Of Eyes That See Things Much Too Far, And Of Thoughts That Wander Off The Edge Of The World.

I Love It When My Books Cause Controversy, When People Argue Violently About The Ending.

Guilleaume Left La Praline With A Small Bag Of Florentines In His Pocket; Before He Had Turned The Corner Of Avenue Des Francs Bourgeois I Saw Him Stoop To Offer One To The Dog. A Pat, A Bark, A Wagging Of The Short Stubby Tail. As I Said, Some People Never Have To Think About Giving.