When One Is Writing A Novel In

Women Want Love To Be A Novel, Men A Short Story.

How Pleasant,' Dona Said, Peeling Her Fruit; 'the Rest Of Us Can Only Run Away From Time To Time, And However Much We Pretend To Be Free, We Know It Is Only For A Little While - Our Hands And Our Feet Are Tied.

I Felt Rather Exhausted, And Wondered, Rather Shocked At My Callous Thought, Why Old People Were Sometimes Such A Strain. Worse Than Young Children Or Puppies Because One Had To Be Polite.

A Familiar Name On Its Own, However, Does Not Carry Its Bearer Far Unless The Talent Is There, And The Will To Work.

This House Sheltered Us, We Spoke, We Loved Within Those Walls. That Was Yesterday. To-day We Pass On, We See It No More, And We Are Different, Changed In Some Infinitesimal Way. We Can Never Be Quite The Same Again.