The novelist, unlike many of his colleagues, makes up a number of word-masses roughly describing himself (roughly: niceties shallcome later), gives them names and sex, assigns them plausible gestures, and causes them to speak by the use of inverted commas, and perhaps to behave consistently.

There has been, is, and always will be every conceivable type of person.

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?

The strong are so stupid.

Life - No, I've nothing to teach you about it for the moment. May be writing about it another week.

Life is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.