She put out her hand and touched his forearm, as she would have touched some piece of porcelain or sculpture, just for the sheer animal pleasure of feeling its shape and curve beneath her fingertips. — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share Image
I wasn't good enough. I had a little talent but not enough. There is nothing more discouraging than having just a little talent. — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share Image
“For he was drinking too much. Not uncontrollably nor offensively, but still he seldom seemed to have a glass out of his hand.” — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share Image
“Oscar and I are very close, and yet I know that part of him is still withdrawn, even from me. As though part of… — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share Image
Grief was like a terrible burden, but at least you could lay it down by the side of the road and walk away from… — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share Image
“Alone. She realized how much she had missed the luxury of solitude, and knew that its occasional comfort would always be essential to her. The pleasure of being on one's own was not so much spiritual as sensuous, like wearing silk, or swimming without a bathing suit, or walking along a totally empty beach with the sun on your back.… — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share
Writing is work, but it's also a compulsion, and once you get your characters on paper, you can't abandon them. You have to respond… — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share Image
“A ring was the accepted sign of infinity, eternity. If her own life was that carefully described pencil line, she knew it all at once that the two ends were drawing close together. I have come full circle, she told herself, and wondered what had happened to all the years. It was a question, which from time to time, caused… — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share
She remembered him smiling, and realized that time, that great old healer, had finally accomplished its work, and now, across the years, the face… — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share Image
“all its occupants had left without her. This troubled Frances not in the least. She already seemed to have made a lot of new friends, she was rich, twice-married, without roots. San Antonio suited her down to the ground. It was filled with painters, expatriates, writers and beatniks, and Frances, who had once lived for several months with an unsuccessful… — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share
“Time had lost its importance. That was one of the good things about getting old: you weren't perpetually in a hurry. All her life, Penelope had looked after other people, but now she had no one to think about but herself. There was time to stop and look, and, looking, to remember. Visions widened, like views seen from the slopes… — Rosamunde Pilcher Copy Share
