Ella J. Fraser

I couldn__ very well make a special delivery to the door of the constabulary now could I? And he__ have made the perfect scapegoat. That aura of misery he wraps himself in. So Byronesque. He__ too immersed in his own guilt to ever suspect it in another.

Over the course of seventy years, Isobel had learned how indiscriminately unkind Life could be. She also knew that cataloguing and reviewing examples of such cruelty was, in itself, a masochistic exercise. One that she'd habitually and rigorously trained herself to refrain from engaging in. Better to focus on those events that demonstrated the grace and beauty with which Life could perform, without rival, when bestowing on her captive audience a distinctively intermittent yet consistently welcomed generosity of spirit.

Books are like horcruxes--without all the evil--because a piece of the author goes into each one.

One of the greatest gifts we can give someone is our undivided attention--a thought that whispers constantly in the ear of any author who respects their readers.

Embrace it. Live it. Life's too short. Even looking at it from my end, when I've had more chances than many, I wish--actually even more so now--that I could go back and tinker with a few things...do a little more of this, a little less of that. But the things about which I feel no regret are those that I did with passion. Those things I remember in living colour. The good and the bad. The rest have faded to black and white. They don't matter. Maybe they never did.

She opened her eyes once again and let them drift across the scene laid out before her like a page from a storybook. Inky blackness hung above them as though painted in impasto in an opaque Prussian Blue. The impression it gave was of a sky hand-crafted out of felt with a pearl of a moon and a generous dusting of diamonds sprinkled on for the stars. A night dreams were made of.