What a shame it is for a nation to be developing without a sense of beauty, and eating bananas for breakfast.

Everything about her was warm and soft and scented; even the stains of her grief became her as raindrops do the beaten rose.

As the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that questions has little healing in its touch.

The early mist had vanished and the fields lay like a silver shield under the sun. It was one of the days when the glitter of winter shines through a pale haze of spring.

The visible world is a daily miracle for those who have eyes and ears; and I still warm hands thankfully at the old fire, though every year it is fed with the dry wood of more old memories.

The short story, free from the longuers of the novel is also exempt from the novel's conclusiveness--too often forced and false: it may thus more nearly than the novel approach aesthetic and moral truth.

I shan't be lonely now. I was lonely; I was afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light.