"Besides, yesterday was my birthday--I was eighteen." "Why didn't you tell us?" they said indignantly. "I knew you'd make a fuss over it and go to a lot of trouble." She finished the champagne. "So this is the celebration." "It most certainly is not," Dick assured her, "The dinner tomorrow night is your birthday and don't forget it. Eighteen--why that's a terribly important age." "I used to think until you're eighteen nothing matters," said Mary. "That's right," Abe agreed. "And afterward it's the same way." --from "Tender is the Night," F. Scott Fitzgerald
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