There is much good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. We are children, playing or quarrelling on the line.

I'm a holy man minus the holiness. Hand that on to your three spies, and tell them to put it in their pipes.

Outside the arch, always there seemed another arch. And beyond the remotest echo, a silence.

For you cannot have gentility without paying for it.

If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting--both for us and for her.

It's miles worse for you than that; I'm in love with your gamekeeper.

The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.