Be happy. Persevere.
Mother seemed to wish that she'd never had a childhood, perhaps because all delight was fleeting and because the promise of one day was not fulfilled even just until the next.
Einstein vigorously wagged his tail. Thoughtfully, Nora said, Escaped . . . Travis knew what she must be thinking. To Einstein, he said, They'll be looking for you, won't they? The dog whined and wagged his tail—which Travis interpreted as a yes with a special edge of anxiety.
I couldn't make up anything as weird as what is.
A fine line separates the weary recluse from the fearful hermit. Finer still is the line between hermit and bitter misanthrope.
Where does fiction end and reality begin?