On being told of the death of former President Calvin Coolidge: How could they tell?

Maybe it is only I, but conditions are such these days, that if you use studiously correct grammar, people suspect you of homosexual tendencies.

We were all imitative. We all wandered in after Miss Edna St. Vincent Millay. We were all being dashing and gallant, declaring we weren't virgins, whether we were or not.

Yet, as only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.

Then she told herself to stop her nonsense. If you looked for things to make you feel hurt and wretched and unnecessary, you were certain to find them, more easily each time, so easily, soon, that you did not even realize you had gone out searching. Women alone often developed into experts at the practice. She must never join their dismal league.

[On hearing that President Coolidge was dead:] How can you tell?

This must be a gift book. That is to say a book, which you wouldn't take on any other terms.