This play John Drinkwater's Abraham Lincoln holds the season's record, thus far, with a run of four evening performances and one matinee. By an odd coincidence, it ran just five performances too many.

Travel, trouble, music, art, a kiss, a frock, a rhyme -- I never said they feed my heart, but still they pass my time.

His books are exciting and powerful and — if I may filch the word from the booksy ones — pulsing.

Civilization is coming to an end, you understand.

Those who have mastered etiquette, who are entirely, impeccably right, would seem to arrive at a point of exquisite dullness.

She can sit up and beg, and she can give her paw — I don't say she will, but she can.

Time may be a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.