She was not sorry. And if it was the wine telling her that, then she would tell the wine the same thing tomorrow. She was not sorry. — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“Why is it," she asked, snuggling closer, "that I so often imagine myself running away and running free?” — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“Ah, but dreams cannot be captured with promises," he said. "Like water, they elude our grasp. But water is the staff of life. I… — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“What sort of man could you love for a lifetime?" he asked her. She was silent for a while. He guessed that she was… — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“Sometimes children do not realize by how fragile a thread their security hangs. Perhaps it is as well they do not - most of… — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“Would she be able to bear never seeing him again? Never in this life?” — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“Sometimes love was to be grasped in any form and in any manner it was offered. And sometimes love must be given in the… — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“When we last out at ourselves for having lost control, we are reminded that we never can be in total control, that all life… — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“This is your home,’ he said. ‘You are mistress of Finchley Park, Vanessa. You may do whatever you wish.’ Her smile broadened. ‘Within reason,’… — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
“She bit her lower lip hard and blinked her eyes. There was such wistfulness and longing in his voice. Oh, she was going to… — Mary Balogh Copy Share Image
