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

She threw back her head with a laugh that made her chins ripple like little waves.

It must be less wicked to love the wrong person than not to love anybody at all.

He knelt by the bed and bent over her, draining their last moment to its lees; and in the silence there passed between them the word which made all clear.

It is almost as stupid to let your clothes betray that you know you are ugly as to have them proclaim that you think you are beautiful.

The other producer of old age is habit: the deathly process of doing the same thing in the same way at the same hour day after day, first from carelessness, then from inclination, at last from cowardice or inertia. Luckily the inconsequent life is not the only alternative; for caprice is as ruinous as routine. Habit is necessary; it is the habit of having habits, of turning a trail into a rut, that must be incessantly fought against if one is to remain alive.

I feel as if I could trust my happiness to carry me; as if it had grown out of me like wings.