Quotes from D.E. Stevenson

As usual, when I slip the strap of the gas-mask container over my small daughter's shoulder, I experience a horrible sinking sensation and utter a fervent prayer that this precaution, insisted upon by the Government, may be unnecessary. My own gas mask does not trouble me in the very least and I can look it in the face without a tremor; it is only Betty's small but hideous protection which makes me feel sick.

It was humility, thought Rhoda. That was the key-note of Bel's character. Rhoda had never prized this virtue—she had thought it overrated—but now she realised, that she had been mistaken. Humility was not just an absence of pride, it was not a negative virtue, it was a definite "fruit of the spirit". False humility was horrible of course (vide Uriah Heep) but real humility, growing from within, was beautiful.

You worry and fuss and try to make things go the way you think they should – and then you find that the other way was best. I'm going to try not to worry about things any more.

You can't get anything worth having for nothing," Darnay declared, offering his guest a fill of tobacco from his pouch, "and faith is worth having—it's the only thing that can save us now, when the whole world has straws in its hair. Faith is worth working for." Bulloch considered this while he filled his pipe. "To

Annie has been with me for years and is a tremendous talker. She starts immediately and discusses the war news. Annie says that the war will be over quite soon now and the major will be back before I know where I am. . . . Cannot help feeling that Annie is a trifle too optimistic, but am comforted all the same, and repair to the kitchen in a cheerful frame of mind.

The offer of money to tide him over any temporary difficulties had been sensible and businesslike. Roger had not thanked Dennis—there was no need—but he had appreciated it greatly; the more so because it was so unusual. Roger was frequently asked for the loan of money, but he could not remember ever having been offered such a thing before.

From his earliest days William Ayrton's ambition had been to become a landed gentleman and to found a family. To modern ears this ambition may sound peculiar in the extreme, but in the more spacious times of William Ayrton it was a laudable ambition

here it was again, clamping down upon his spirit, drying up his mouth, fluttering like an imprisoned bird in his bosom.

The property was situated in a fold of the hills and sloped gently down to the sea. It consisted of meadows and a little wood and some moorland; there was a well, built of glowing yellow stone, which was fed by a spring and was always full of ice-cold water. The water itself was as clear as crystal but the reflection of the stone gave it the appearance of amber … it was this well which gave the property its name, Amberwell.

It is all true. It is true that a German plane came down on the moor in the middle of a shooting party and the two airmen were captured. It is true that German planes came down to low level in Norfolk, and elsewhere, and used machine guns to kill pedestrians on the roads.

That's what I was meaning. Ye've got to have freedom first. It's no use believing what other folks say; the only thing is for each man to fend for himself, Mr. Darnay. Each man standing on his own feet, finding his own path—" "Grand!

Her eyes are full of tears and I realise that she must be comforted, so I proceed to explain my own particular method of "carrying on". None of us could bear the war if we allowed ourselves to brood upon the wickedness of it and the misery it has entailed, so the only thing to do is not to allow oneself to think about it seriously, but just to skitter about on the surface of life like a water beetle.

Sometimes she almost welcomed catastrophe as the concrete form of her fears—Here it is at last!—something seemed to say—you know now what it is, at any rate, and you can bear it.

Have decided not to mention the war in my diary—or at least only to mention it as it affects me. Diary is to be an escape from war (if possible). Domestic affairs much smoother now.

hatred is a terrible thing. Hatred hurts the hater far more than its object.

If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there Thy hand shall guide me and Thy right hand shall hold me.

At the end of a year the matter would be reconsidered. Mr. Whitney insisted on the year's probation—Ernest might want to marry, or he, himself, might die; anything might happen in a year— "Good," said Ernest at last, stretching his arms, "I'm free." "You are bound," thought Mr. Whitney but he was too wise to say so.

As I have lived all my married life in furnished houses, amongst other people's belongings, I am neither surprised nor abashed to hear of this strange deficiency,

Tim says he never suggested a historical romance. If I did write one nobody would read it. But why not try my hand at a detective story – a thriller with a murder and buried treasure, etc. – he will help me with it if I like.

Sister Ferguson's method of dealing with misfortunes was to "wash them out". You never got anywhere if you sat down and brooded and felt sorry for yourself. The thing to do was to pretend you didn't care . . . then, after a bit, you found the pretence was true.

There was physical comfort in abundance, the house was full of beautiful things, but there was no love, no kindness, there was none of the gentleness and consideration which makes the smallest cottage a home.

The young men were strangers to Tilly and therefore strangers to Chevis Green. They looked rather nice, rather interesting, but, as one was tall and fair and the other short and dark, neither of them was the future husband who would love her passionately and help in the production of her family.

was a good mother to her three children, but there was no vitality in her. She died — if not of a broken heart, of a bruised one — when her youngest child, a daughter, was eight years old.

We are but little children weak nor born in any high estate, she could only shake like an aspen leaf with helpless laughter; Trivvie weak, and meek! She was as meek, and almost as helpless, as a full-grown Bengal tiger.