One's sentiments -- call them that -- one's fidelities are so instinctive that one hardly knows they exist: only when they are betrayed or, worse still, when one betrays them does one realize their power.

The most steady, the most self-sufficient nature depends, more than it knows, on its few chosen stimuli.

Sins cut boldly up through every class in society, but mere misdemeanours show a certain level in life.

Never to lie is to have no lock on your door, you are never wholly alone.

Silences can be as different as sounds.

Ghosts, we hope, may be always with us - that is, never too far out of the reach of fancy. On the whole, it would seem they adapt themselves well, perhaps better than we do, to changing world conditions - they enlarge their domain, shift their hold on our nerves, and, dispossessed of one habitat, set up house in another. The universal battiness of our century looks like providing them with a propitious climate.

Everything is very quiet, the streets are never crowded, and the people one dislikes are out of town.