He was lean and rapidly bronzing, for he seldom remembered a head covering because he loved the sweep of the wind in his hair.
"I hate to touch you," he said.

"How I wish she could see you before I begin.

If she did, probably she would say it was a sin, and then I never could muster courage to do it at all.

I'd give a small farm to know if those violets revived for her.

I was crazy to ask Doc if they were wilted, but I hated to.