The Little Things Of Life, Sweet And

Walter's Eyes Were Very Wonderful. All The Joy And Sorrow And Laughter And Loyalty And Aspirations Of Many Generations Lying Under The Sod Looked Out Of Their Dark-gray Depths.

It Was November--the Month Of Crimson Sunsets, Parting Birds, Deep, Sad Hymns Of The Sea, Passionate Wind-songs In The Pines. Anne Roamed Through The Pineland Alleys In The Park And, As She Said, Let That Great Sweeping Wind Blow The Fogs Out Of Her Soul.

She Wanted To Be Alone - To Think Things Out - To Adjust Herself, If It Were Possible, To The New World In Which She Seemed To Have Been Transplanted With A Suddenness And Completeness That Left Her Half Bewildered To Her Own Identity.

You Were Never Poor As Long As You Had Something To Love.

I Am Simply A 'book Drunkard.' Books Have The Same Irresistible Temptation For Me That Liquor Has For Its Devotee. I Cannot Withstand Them.