Because She Was A Princess

I Found That The Only Way I Could Control This Sorrow Was Not To Think Of [it] At All, Which Was Almost As Painful As The Loss Itself.

...and Again She Wished For Sherwood, And The Dappled Roof Of Leaves That Never Weighed Upon Her. She Pulled Her Scarf Closer Around Her And Thought, I Would Rather Live In A Hut In The Woods; A Hut Like The One Of My First Memories, With A Clean-swept Dirt Floor, And A Brown-eyed Boy Watching Me From Behind His Mother's Skirts As I Watched Him From Behind Mine.

My Books Happen. They Tend To Blast In From Nowhere, Seize Me By The Throat, And Howl 'write Me! Write Me Now!' But They Rarely Stand Still Long Enough For Me To See What And Who They Are, Before They Hurtle Away Again. And So I Spend A Lot Of Time Running After Them, Like A Thrown Rider After An Escaped Horse, Saying 'wait For Me! Wait For Me!' And Waving My Notebook In The Air.

As I Have Said, You Have No Reason To Trust Me, And An Excellent Reason Not To.

He Looked At Her Rather As A Man Looks At A Problem That He Would Very Much Prefer To Do Without. She Supposed It Was A Distinction Of A Sort To Be A Harassment To A King.