“As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough - I wrote faster than I would write a letter - two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.”
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O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
When love is at its best, one loves so much that he cannot forget.
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.
