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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
Stills
Diana
Still
Heroines
Best
Believed
Book
Fate
Play
Took
Writing
Story
Always
Hands
Would
Stories
Heroine

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I can't imagine what my life was before. I can't imagine ever being without you for very long again.
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It is a fact of big cities that one girl's darkest how is always another's moment of shining triumph, and New York is the biggest and cruelest city of them all.
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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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What was it about that short creature with her wild hair and spurious air of purity and why would anyone much less two men love her and to such disastrous ends.
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A young woman, newly wed, may find herself in the delightful position of wanting to do nothing without the company of her darling husband. She may indeed discover that she spends all her waking hours with her fellow to the exclusion of every other friend or family member. This is understandable, but wholly unacceptable, to society.
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It is a truth universally acknowledge that there will always be a gentleman to dance with, except at just the moment when you require one most.
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Even when a girl is married she still never completely leaves her mother and father's home.
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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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You love her, Teddy observed quietly. Henry replied with an uncharacteristic lack of irony: Yes. Teddy's eyes shifted to the plaster interlacing that decorated the ceiling in curlicues. Lord, you never make it easy, do you. No.
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They were a society whose chief vocations were to entertain and be entertained.
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He turned his dark eyes on the girl whom he had dreamed of so often over the previous months. Beside him, at that very moment of existence, at the heart of torrential downpour, she was exquisitely real, and she, too, seemed content to go on sitting there forever.
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He was just like summer, and she loved summer. If she had any wish, it would be to live a lifetime of summers.
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As she always did on any really important day, Penelope Hayes wore red.
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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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That was the way love was, she guessed-it left you always unsteady on your feet.
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There was plenty of life left and if he had to he would use it all to get her back. The time had passed for making promises to her-all that was left for him was to act.
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They were all dressed in their finest as though life really were some magical stage play in which every moment ought to be illuminated with its own bright spotlight.
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