Sweet is the voice of a sister in the season of sorrow.
Bless you, my darling, and remember you are always in the heart - oh tucked so close there is no chance of escape - of your sister.
Sister is probably the most competitive relationship within the family, but once the sisters are grown, it becomes the strongest relationship.
An older sister is a friend and defender - a listener, conspirator, a counsellor and a sharer of delights. And sorrows too.
I, who have no sisters or brothers, look with some degree of innocent envy on those who may be said to be born to friends.
Is solace anywhere more comforting than that in the arms of a sister.
Sisters never quite forgive each other for what happened when they were five.
More than Santa Claus, your sister knows when you've been bad and good.
There can be no situation in life in which the conversation of my dear sister will not administer some comfort to me.
In thee my soul shall own combined the sister and the friend.
That beautiful sister of mine was an overwhelming and volatile mixture. One had the feeling that she'd been shot from a canon and showered her sparks over an incredulous world with no thought or care where they fell, a carbon copy of father. She was like some silvery comet who streaked through life with daring speed, the wellspring of which was an inner confidence that I deeply admired. At times, particularly in childhood, I was intimidated by her but she dictated from an aura of affection for me that was never threatening.
Very handsome women have usually far less sensibility to compliments than their less beautiful sisters.
I don't think of myself as a feminist, but if someone calls me a feminist icon, that's fine. I've always stood up for women and myself in general. I have a great love and respect, because I have had beautiful sisters, aunts and my grandmas, but I love men. I totally understand the nature of men.
I watched my beautiful sister running . . . and I knew she was not running away from me or toward me. Like someone who has survived a gut-shot, the wound had been closing, closing - braiding into a scar for eight long years.
There comes a point at which you stop giving things up. That is what i won't give up. None of it will i give up, for my beautiful sister Ivy who lies in bed. Ivy who used to be alive. Ivy who used to be. Ivy who used. Ivy who. Ivy-who-is-not-me. Not me. Not me. Not me.
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