[The woman] paused and seemed to take a deep breath. 'You see,' she declared. 'I am Tom Mallow's aunt.' Catherine's first instinct was to burst out laughing. She wondered why there was something slightly absurd about aunts; perhaps it was because one thought of them as dear, comfortable creatures, somehow lacking in dignity and prestige.

Dulcie always found a public library a little upsetting, for one saw so many odd people there.

What a good thing there is no marriage or giving in marriage in the after-life; it will certainly help to smooth things out.

She set about preparing her supper. It would have to be one of those classically simple meals, the sort that French peasants are said to eat and that enlightened English people sometimes enjoy rather self-consciously - a crusty French loaf, cheese, and lettuce and tomatoes from the garden. Of course there should have been wine and a lovingly prepared dressing of oil and vinegar, but Dulcie drank orange squash and ate mayonnaise that came from a bottle.

Life is cruel and we do terrible things to each other.

I love Evensong. There's something sad and essentially English about it.

There are no sick people in North Oxford. They are either dead or alive. It's sometimes difficult to tell the difference, that's all.