“But when Mrs. Westvessel announced one day in the fall that the class would begin writing poetry, Anastasia was the happiest she had ever been in school. Somewhere, off in a place beyond her own thoughts, Anastasia could hear Mrs. Westvessel’s voice. She was reading some poems to the class; she was talking about poetry and how it was made.”
“Her happiest times were when the Vicar was in London and Miss Brown was in bed with a headache. Then she would be mad with pleasure, a sort of wild but earnest puppy rushing about with the slipper of her imagination, tearing the heart out of it.”