“I lifted my face to the sun and let its warmth and light caress me with its favor.”

“But his letters . . . I took them with me, let the "ounces" cry aloud. I tried to leave, and could not. They would not be left; it was not my fault. I will not be scolded.”

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.' The list is long, Robert. Very long. And will grow longer still."He smiled. "Then let us begin with number one . . .”

“I reached for the notebook which was always close by. All thoughts of composing epic poems of Greek heroes had left me. The words that often burst from my onto the paper in recent days would be considered mere nothings to the world, but they were everything to me . . . They were the pourings of my heart FOR my heart . . .”

“And as for writing my poetry, he claimed the toil of it was too much strain. Toil? Writing is my life. It is not toil. And he cannot stop me.”

“And so...we prayed. And I added a silent prayer of my own, giving God thanks for the blessing of my father.”

“When I read a novel I am not here. I am transported to far-off places, my eyes unseeing of the words on the page, busy with a scene being played out in my mind's eye, with my ears engaged, hearing the voices carry from the pen to the present. What a lovely place to be-not here - Just Jane (Chapter Four Page 35)”