Mornings used to be his favorite, as though the world were his secret.
— Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout
Gusts of wind were now swooping in all directions, so that the bay looked like a blue and white crazily frosted cake, peaks rising one way, then another.
- Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout
Harmon walked along, leaving his car at the marina, the air like a cold washcloth on his face. Each of his sons had been his favorite child.
– Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout