Oh, wise young judge.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

Truthfulness so often goes with ruthlessness.

They call them the haunted shores, these stretches of Devonshire and Cornwall and Ireland which rear up against the westward ocean. Mists gather here, and sea fog, and eerie stories. That's not because there are more ghosts here than in other places, mind you. It's just that people who live hereabouts are strangely aware of them.

... for I know I shall be interrupted-- I shall want to be, really, because life is too exciting to sit still for long.

I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No-a journal ought not to cheat.

I know all about the facts of life, and I don't think much of them.