Americans do seem to say things which make the English notice England.

Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return -- that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

How can a young man like to wear a beard?

Wakings are the worst times--almost before my eyes are open a great weight seems to roll on my heart.

But some characters in books are really real--Jane Austen's are; and I know those five Bennets at the opening of Pride and Prejudice, simply waiting to raven the young men at Netherfield Park, are not giving one thought to the real facts of marriage.

What is it about the English countryside — why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?