Jo

“Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said, "So, you're back from Moscow, eh?”
― P.G. Wodehouse , Mike and Psmith

“Happiness isn't a thing. You can't go out and get it like a cup of tea. It's the way you feel about things.”
― Diana Wynne Jones, Fire and Hemlock

“I used to think of two people in love like that. Like puzzle pieces, fitting together. But it's not like that at all. Love pulls a part of you out, and it pulls a part of him - like taffy, stretching but not separating. The tendrils of each one wrap around the other, until they meld together. One, but not quite. Separate, but not quite.”
― Tammara Webber, Here Without You

“It’s a long story,” he said, taking a sip of Mr. Braeburn’s whiskey, “so I will tell only a
very condensed version of it.
“Mrs. Marsden and I grew up on adjacent properties in the Cotswold. But the Cotswold, as
fair as it is, plays almost no part in this tale. Because it was not in the green, unpolluted
countryside that we fell in love, but in gray, sooty London. Love at first sight, of course, a
hunger of the soul that could not be denied.”
Bryony trembled somewhere inside. This was not their story, but her story, the determined
spinster felled by the magnificence and charm of the gorgeous young thing.
He glanced at her. “You were the moon of my existence; your moods dictated the tides of
my heart.”
The tides of her own heart surged at his words, even though his words were nothing but
lies.
“I don’t believe I had moods,” she said severely.
“No, of course not. ‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate’—and the tides of my heart
only rose ever higher to crash against the levee of my self-possession. For I loved you most
intemperately, my dear Mrs. Marsden.”
Beside her Mrs. Braeburn blushed, her eyes bright. Bryony was furious at Leo, for his
facile words, and even more so at herself, for the painful pleasure that trickled into her drop
by drop.
“Our wedding was the happiest hour of my life, that we would belong to each other always.
The church was filled with hyacinths and camellias, and the crowd overflowed to the steps,
for the whole world wanted to see who had at last captured your lofty heart.
“But alas, I had not truly captured your lofty heart, had I? I but held it for a moment. And
soon there was trouble in Paradise. One day, you said to me, ‘My hair has turned white. It is a
sign I must wander far and away. Find me then, if you can. Then and only then will I be yours
again.’”
Her heart pounded again. How did he know that she had indeed taken her hair turning white
as a sign that the time had come for her to leave? No, he did not know. He’d made it up out of
whole cloth. But even Mr. Braeburn was spellbound by this ridiculous tale. She had forgotten
how hypnotic Leo could be, when he wished to beguile a crowd.
“And so I have searched. From the poles to the tropics, from the shores of China to the
shores of Nova Scotia. Our wedding photograph in hand, I have asked crowds pale, red,
brown, and black, ‘I seek an English lady doctor, my lost beloved. Have you seen her?’”
He looked into her eyes, and she could not look away, as mesmerized as the hapless
Braeburns.
“And now I have found you at last.” He raised his glass. “To the beginning of the rest of
our lives.”
― Sherry Thomas, Not Quite a Husband