There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it.
Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe, whose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that that was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.
Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.
Our final experience, like our first, is conjectural. We move between two darkness's.
Reverence is fatal to literature.
Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance.