One strain could call up the quivering expectancy of Christmas Eve, childhood, joy and sadness, the lonely wonder of a star — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
When there are boys you have to worry about how you look, and whether they like you, and why they like another girl better, and whether they're going to ask you to something or other. It's a strain. — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
Then he kissed her. Betsy didn't believe in letting boys kiss you. She thought it was silly to be letting first this boy and… — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
“Betsy was so full of joy that she had to be alone. She went upstairs to her bedroom and sat down on Uncle Keith's trunk. Behind Tacy's house the sun had set. A wind had sprung up and the trees, their color dimmed, moved under a brooding sky. All the stories she had told Tacy and Tib seemed to be… — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share
The silence in the room had width, height, depth, mass and substance. — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
Was life always like that? she wondered. A game of hide and seek in which you only occasionally found the person you wanted to… — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
Isn't it mysterious to begin a new journal like this? I can run my fingers through the fresh clean pages but I cannot guess… — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
“...the poorest guide you can have in life is what people will say - Mr. Ray, Heaven to Betsy” — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share
“This was Betsy and Tacy's private corner. Betsy's mother was a great believer in people having private corners, and the piano box was plainly… — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
“We have to build our lives out of what materials we have. It's as though we were given a heap of blocks and told… — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
Betsy. The great war is on but I hope ours is over. Please come home. Joe. — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
“You don't grow up, she reasoned now, until you begin to evaluate yourself, to recognize your good traits and acknowledge that you have a… — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
I cannot remember back to a year in which I did not consider myself to be a writer, and the younger I was the… — Maud Hart Lovelace Copy Share Image
