When One Is Writing A Novel In

Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

But I Have Had Enough Melodrama In This Life, And Would Willingly Give My Five Senses If They Could Ensure Us Our Present Peace And Security. Happiness Is Not A Possession To Be Prized, It Is A Quality Of Thought, A State Of Mind. Of Course We Have Our Moments Of Depression; But There Are Other Moments Too, When Time, Unmeasured By The Clock, Runs On Into Eternity And, Catching His Smile, I Know We Are Together, We March In Unison, No Flash Of Thought Or Opinion Makes A Barrier Between Us.

She Had To Live In This Bright, Red Gabled House With The Nurse Until It Was Time For Her To Die... I Thought How Little We Know About The Feelings Of Old People. Children We Understand, Their Fears And Hopes And Make-believe.

He Stole Horses' You'll Say To Yourself, 'and He Didn't Care For Women; And But For My Pride I'd Have Been With Him Now.

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.