Come to think of it, she did not speak a word. Yet I could have sworn she had the most beautiful voice.
Words are important to me. I listen to each one, weigh and measure it. If I cannot trust your words, how can I trust you?
When you set yourself on fire, people love to come and see you burn.
At the door he turned and looked back. She stood, facing away from him, the sunlight from the window enshrouding her in an unmerited halo of gold. Perhaps, he thought, that was how God saw all His children. Selfish and fallen, yes. But in the forgiving light of His Son, each wore an unmerited halo.
I have been praying, too, for the first time in my life. That parson, Tugwell, he helped me see – not the error of my ways, for I knew them all to well already – but what was wanting in me. I am far from perfect, I know, but I am changed and changing still.
How long had it had been since she’d thought back on the evenings around the fire, number games at the kitchen table, or listening to her father sing? Too long. Yes, there had been bad times. And she had tallied them like figures in a column, not remembering to factor in the good. She had doctored the books.
One might open the book idly, but one never knows what treasures one might find.
This is real life, Master Stephen. Happily ever after takes effort.
Live or die my heart is yours, Sophie Dupont.
God was good, she did not doubt. But that did not always mean He gave you everything you wanted.
Why does anyone write anything? To make known and to be known.
How pleasant to escape for an hour or two into the company of a treasured friend.
And therein lies the void between the sexes. Women want long looks and deep discussions, and men want to ride and shoot.” Captain Bryant nodded. “I know I do. Can we lay aside novels for a few hours and go shoot something?
Seeing you puts me in mind of a piece of French chocolate.” She swallowed and took another step backward. “If one wants to discover what is inside, one must first remove the foreign wrapping.
How he longed to be her rescuer, her brave knight. To prove he was more than the mischievous troublemaker she remembered and likely still thought him.
Next came the drawing room and Abigail stared in surprise. It appeared as though the occupants had just been called away. A tea set sat on the round table, cups encrusted with dry tea. A book lay open over the arm of the sofa. A needlework project, nearly finished, lay trapped under an overturned chair. What had happened here? Why had the family left so abruptly, and why had the rooms been entombed for almost two decades?
Slowly, carefully, he pulled the wig from her head. He asked, bemused, “You just happened to have this lying about?” “I meant to wear it for a masquerade.” He chuckled, deep in his throat. An intimate sound that warmed her. “And you certainly did. The longest masquerade in history.