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That was how the heroine of a book would play it and Diana was still writing her own story the best heroines she'd always believed took their fate into their own hands.

Anna Godbersen

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Anna Godbersen
Age: 44
Born: 1980
Born: April 10
Writer
Berkeley
California
Believed
Best
Fate
Book
Took
Play
Story
Writing
Hands
Always
Stories
Heroine
Would
Stills
Diana
Heroines
Still

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They will stop calling brides beautiful after today—you have simply set the standard too high,' he said.
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She was like a heroine in a novel that she herself was writing the character kept protesting that she was too strong for love and yet the narrator went on describing her desire.
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We see our sins reflected everywhere: in the pallor of our intimates’ faces, in the scratching of tree branches against windows, in the strange movements of everyday objects. These may be messages from God or tricks of the eye, but in neither case are we permitted to ignore them.
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Already she could feel the stunning weight of a lifetime of regret for letting him go, and she knew that it was enought to bury her alive.
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Ah well that I can't tell you. Diana ducked her head so that the brim of her bonnet covered her face. Some things must remain a mystery and for now I think I'll keep my opinion of you and your compliments to myself.
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Henry turned his hat in his hands but went on looking at Diana in a way that made her want to crawl into his arms and stay there forever.
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The living are made of nothing but flaws. The dead, with each passing day in the afterlife, become more and more impeccable to those who remain earthbound.
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The headiest loves were the loves that couldn't be.
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A lady must retain always her composure. Even in a rainstorm, she must appear joyous and dry. When she loses her composure, then the respect of her peers and her staff will follow in short order.
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In New York there is always something to look at, but it is all infinitely more interesting through a window in the backseat of a limousine.
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You don’t need to marry a man with millions. You only need to be your exquisite self.
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A young lady's most natural ally is her sister although sometimes our own relatives are as inscrutable to us as an antipodean.
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Diana knew it wouldn't be right, but then she told herself that things only looked wrong when there was someone to see you.
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Her heart the damned thing had begun to race and she only hoped that the rapid inflation and deflation of her chest wasn't visible beneath her fitted bodice.
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The first stab of love is like a sunset, a blaze of color - oranges, pearly pinks, vibrant purples.
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That is what I want to tell you about: the girls with their short skirts and bright eyes and big-city dreams. The girls of 1929.
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Though her emotions had not deviated from a jittery frailty she knew that in her own room she could at least attempt sleep and that if she dreamed she might then finally be with Henry.
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THE LUXE IS . . . Pretty girls in pretty dresses, partying until dawn. Irresistible boys with mischievous smiles and dangerous intentions. White lies, dark secrets, and scandalous hookups. This is Manhattan in 1899.
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It is well known that a man, when wooing a lady to be his wife, must first win over the females she most confides in—her friends, of course, and her sister, if she has one.
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It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer.
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