There was once a little girl who was so very intelligent that her parents feared that she would die. But an aged aunt, who had crossed the Atlantic in a sailing-vessel, said, 'My dears, let her marry the first man she falls in love with, and she will make such a fool of herself that it will probably save her life.

And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them.

She wondered if, when human souls try to get too near each other, they do not inevitably become mere blurs to each other's vision.

We can't behave like people in novels, though, can we?

Why do we call all our generous ideas illusions, and the mean ones truths?

I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.

To visit Morocco is still like turning the pages of some illuminated Persian manuscript all embroidered with bright shapes and subtle lines.