The Lake House

by Kate Morton

Boredom, as her mother had always told them, was a state to be pitied, the province of the witless.

She would be using the time wisely, dealing with correspondence or polishing silver heirlooms, taking care of one of the many tasks with which genteel ladies of a certain age and class filled their time.

There is nothing so tiresome as a person who mistakes recognition for friendship—and

The absence of demands and expectations, of queries and conversation, was a true, simple joy.