Facts are the soil from which the story grows. Imagination is a last resort.

Music, the knife without a hilt.

And the English army, wheeling, started south at a gallop over the hill pass into Ettrick, followed by twenty men and eight hundred sheep in steel helmets.

I wish to God,” said Gideon with mild exasperation, “that you’d talk—just once—in prose like other people.

If I can’t be personal, I don’t want to argue,” said his hostess categorically. “I may be missing your points, but you’re much too busy dodging mine.

Where are the links of the chain ... joining us to the past?

And habits are hell's own substitute for good intentions. Habits are the ruin of ambition, of initiative , of imagination. They're the curse of marriage and the after-bane of death.