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A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
Kate Morton
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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Sing
Continued
Ancient
Distant
Wall
Walls
Hours
Soft
Edge
Edges
Lilt
Slow
Twinge
Lips
Recitation
More quotes by Kate Morton
They say everyone needs something to love.
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The girl in the mirror caught my eye briefly...It is an uncanny feeling, that rare occasion when one catches a glimpse of oneself in repose. An unguarded moment, stripped of artifice, when one forgets to fool even oneself.
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In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.
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Adults weren’t supposed to understand their children and you were doing something wrong if they did.
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She doesn't know I cry for the changing times. That just as I reread favourite books, some small part of me hoping for a different ending, I find myself hoping against hope that the war will never come. That this time, somehow, it will leave us be.
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She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.
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I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.
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The certainty that she would find what it was she sought just slipped away, until one night she knew there was nothing, no one waiting for her. That no matter how far she walked, how carefully she searched, how much she wanted to find the person she was looking for, she was alone - The Forgotten Garden
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But in my humble opinion, a house needs a good party once in a while remind folks it exists.
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There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.
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She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.
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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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Sometimes, Edie, a person's feelings aren't rational. At least, they don't seem that way on the surface. You have to dig a little deeper to understand what lies at the base
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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You'll beat this. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you will. You're a survivor. I don't want to survive it. I know that, too, Nell had said. And it's fair enough. But sometimes we don't have a choice.
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I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.
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The stretch of years leaves none unmarked: the blissful sense of youthful invincibility peels away and responsibility brings its weight to bear.
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... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.
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Life could be cruel enough these days without the truth making it worse.
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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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