On the strength of his literary output alone... any woman of sense would decline to tackle D.H. Lawrence at 1,000 pounds a night.

. . . the fellow's got a bee in his bonnet. Thinks God's a secretion of the liver--all right once in a way, but there's no need to keep on about it. There's nothing you can't prove if your outlook is only sufficiently limited.

She reflected she must be completely besotted about Peter, if his laughter could hallow an aspidistra.

If it were not for the war, this war would suit me down to the ground.

A marriage of two independent and equally irritable intelligences seems to me reckless to the point of insanity.

What? Sunday morning in an English family and no sausages? God bless my soul, what's the world coming to, eh?

[O]ne can scarcely be frightened off writing what one wants to write for fear an obscure reviewer should patronise one on that account.