A house from which nobody ever went away without feeling better in some way. A house in which there was always laughter.

More than ever at that instant did she long for speech - speech that would conceal and protect where dangerous silence might betray.

March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed by a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of moonshine.

[Ilse] was suffering so keenly that she wanted to arraign the universe at the bar of her pain.

Words aren't made — they grow,' said Anne.

I'm afraid concerts spoil people for everyday life.