After all, the girl actually had faith in something, which was more than most people had in these dark times. It was wrong to destroy it.

A story is a wondrous invention.

We adapt to our sorrows, I suppose, as unpleasant as they might be. One cannot weep forever. One simply runs dry of tears.

One's child is always one's child no matter what age they might be. You worry when your child makes a noise, when he doesn't. It's a terrible kind of love. Terrible.