There Were Only So Many Ways A

There Are Moments In A Woman's Life When Her Heart Flips In Her Chest, When The World Suddenly Seems Uncommonly Pink And Perfect, When A Symphony Can Be Heard In The Tinkle Of A Doorbell.

She Hated That She Was Still So Desperate For A Glimpse Of Him, But It Had Been This Way For Years.

Interesting, He Later Reflected, Was Perhaps Not The Correct Word.by The Time He And Henry Arrived Back At The House For Their Midday Meal-a Scrumptious Bowl Of Hot, Sticky Porridge-he Had Mucked Out The Stable Stalls, Milked A Cow, Been Pecked By Three Separate Hens, Weeded A Vegetable Garden, And Fallen Into A Trough.

It Was Juvenile, He Knew, This Need To Assign Blame, But Everyone Had A Right To Childish Emotions From Time To Time, Didn't They?

When A Man Writes A Romance, The Woman Dies. When A Woman Writes One, It Ends All Tidy And Sweet.