Heretics Are Wicked, But They're Mighty Int'resting.

You Have The Itch For Writing Born In You. It's Quite Incurable. What Are You Going To Do With It?

But She Had Long Ago Learned That When She Wandered Into The Realm Of Fancy She Must Go Alone. The Way To It Was By An Enchanted Path Where Not Even Her Dearest Might Follow Her.

There Is No Use In Loving Things If You Have To Be Torn From Them, Is There? And It's So Hard To Keep From Loving Things, Isn't It?

She Seemed To Walk In An Atmosphere Of Things About To Happen.

…the Lake Of Shining Waters Was Blue — Blue — Blue; Not The Changeful Blue Of Spring, Nor The Pale Azure Of Summer, But A Clear, Steadfast, Serene Blue, As If The Water Were Past All Modes And Tenses Of Emotion And Had Settled Down To A Tranquillity Unbroken By Fickle Dreams.