Once outside the magic circle the writers became their lonely selves, pondering on poems, observing their fellow men ruthlessly, putting people they knew into novels; no wonder they were without friends.

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.

It was odd how one found oneself making trivial conversation on important occasions. Perhaps it was because one could not say what was really in one's mind.

Novel writing is a kind of private pleasure, even if nothing comes of it in worldly terms.

She had always been an unashamed reader of novels.

There are various ways of mending a broken heart, but perhaps going to a learned conference is one of the more unusual.

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