I have drunk of the wine of life at last, I have known the thing best worth knowing, I have been warmed through and through, never to grow quite cold again till the end.

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.

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

The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future.

In all the arts abundance seems to be one of the surest signs of vocation.

They belonged to that vast group of human automata who go through life without neglecting to perform a single one of the gestures executed by the surrounding puppets.

Then stay with me a little longer,' Madame Olenska said in a low tone, just touching his knee with her plumed fan. It was the lightest touch, but it thrilled him like a caress.