Give, do not lend; after death who will thank you?
There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy.
The sun was already declining and each of the trees held a premonition of night.
This solitude opressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.
Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce "boum.
She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship.