For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone.

The advance of regret can be so gradual that it is impossible to say "yesterday I was happy, today I am not.

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves young Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?

But Humanity, in its desire for comfort, had over-reached itself. It had exploited the riches of nature too far. Quietly and complacently, it was sinking into decadence, and progress had come to mean the progress of the Machine.

I think - I think - I think how little they think what lies so near them.

Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them.

There is an aristocracy of the sensitive. They represent the true human tradition of permanent victory over cruelty and chaos.