The trouble is, walking in Venice becomes compulsive once you start. Just over the next bridge, you say, and then the next one beckons.

People who travel are always fugitives.

He stole horses' you'll say to yourself, 'and he didn't care for women; and but for my pride I'd have been with him now.

I could fight with the living but I could not fight the dead. If there was some woman in London that Maxim loved, someone he wrote to, visited, dined with, slept with, I could fight her. We would stand on common ground. I should not be afraid. Anger and jealousy were things that could be conquered. One day the woman would grow old or tired or different, and Maxim would not love her anymore. But Rebecca would never grow old. Rebecca would always be the same. And she and I could not fight. She was to strong for me.

How simple life becomes when things like mirrors are forgotten.

Life was a series of greetings and farewells, one was always saying good-bye to something, to someone.

Nothing like a cup of tea to make a person feel better, man or woman.