Diane B. Saxton

Think how wonderful it might be to no longer matter, Mrs. Peregrine. Think how wonderful it might be to no longer worry, struggle_ or fail.

_ I studied the painting that hangs over the small fireplace. Immerse myself in art, I told myself. Immerse myself in the conversation of those strollers, people who seem to move about more comfortably in their early-evening twilight than I do, people of maybe sixty years ago.

The inherent mystery itself: that elusive brightness that flows out of dreams; the brightness that, when we awaken, is already fading from our minds__ still pursued it almost every morning, in spite of my many hours of tortured sleep.

She enjoys a fight for survival.

At the time, however, I didn't realize the extent of my granddaughter's sensitivity - or her loneliness. I thought only of myself. Of my own sensitivity and my own loneliness.