A. T. Quiller-Couch

“ She was a just child. She went upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked her wardrobe, and took out the doll, which was clad in blue silk, and reposed in a dog-trough lined with the same material. Honoria had recklessly cut up two handkerchiefs (for underclothing) and her Sunday sash, and had made the garments in secret. They were prodigies of bad needlework. With the face of a Medea she stripped the poor thing, took it in her arms as if to kiss it, but checked herself sternly. She descended to the terrace with the doll in one hand and its original calico smock in the other. ”

“ I like them better than books, too, because they always end happily. But I can't repeat them a bit. As soon as I begin they fall to pieces, and the pieces get mixed up, and, worst of all, the life goes right out of them. But Taffy, he takes the pieces and puts them together, and the tale is better than ever: quite different, and new, too. That's the puzzle. It's not memory with him; it's something else."
"But don't you ever make up a story of your own?" Honoria insisted.
Now you might talk with Mrs. Raymond for ten minutes, perhaps, and think her a simpleton ”

“ Humility pulled in her skirts, and Honoria found room on the doorstep beside her. "Please don't stop. It's wonderful. Now I know where Taffy gets his cleverness."
"You are quite wrong. This is only a knack. All his cleverness comes from his father."
"Oh, books! Of course, Mr. Raymond knows all about books. He's writing one, isn't he?"
Mrs. Raymond nodded.
"What about?"
"It's about St. Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews; in Greek, you know. He has been working at it for years."
"And he's indoors working at it now? What funny things men do!" ”