I am happy; I am in his arms, my face crushed against his padded jacket, his arms around me as tight as a bear, so that I cannot breathe. When I look up into his beloved weary face, he kisses me so hard that I close my eyes and think myself a besotted girl again. I catch a breath, and he kisses me some more.

Uneori mi se pare foarte trist că nu putem mărturisi nimănui, nici măcar oamenilor care ne sunt cei mai apropiați, ce avem pe suflet.

Books are not made to be believed, but to be subjected to enquiry  (William of Baskerville)

She was disappearing a little more each day, so thin, so frail, a wisp of smoke. One day she would surely vanish altogether, and there was no way to stop her.

Written By Alice Hoffman

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