“The material was wrinkled, yet even in the low light it remembered the shape of two bodies.” — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“A Letter from a Muse to Her Poet: Dear sir, I was called away and couldn’t bring you, but now I feel haunted. I… — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
To desperately hope," I whispered James let out a breath. "To gratefully believe. — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“The fear of being noticed after a hundred years disappears as I look into a pair of autumn-colored eyes.” — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“Be a sparrow, I told myself. Be silent and fly away. No one will bother you if you disappear.” — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
The library smells like old books — a thousand leather doorways into other worlds. I hear silence, like the mind of God. I feel… — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
That I am your heart's secret fills me with song. I wish I could sing of you here in my cage. You are my… — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“I would court you with a passion, if things were different. You’d never get me off your porch swing.” — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“in the wings, as often mothers and grandmothers are, ready to catch the children should they need saving,” — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
Boys and girls hid in the library stacks or behind the gym and flew at each other with no promise of love or even… — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“Dear sir: twelve hours is as twelve years to me. I imagine you in your home, smiling, thinking of me. That I am your… — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
Books are boring," James said as he wrote. "They line the walls like a thousand leather doorways to be opened into worlds unknown," I… — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“I knew that she was trying to save her little girl, but sometimes mothers with the best intentions kill their daughters all the same.” — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“The library smells like old books-a thousand leather doorways into other worlds." "Dear sir, I was called away and couldn't bring you, but now… — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
“Time is a ribbon, a delicate organdy, so thin that you can see through it to the layer of time below and the layer… — Laura Whitcomb Copy Share Image
