unloved women have no biographies-- they have histories

I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.

I know myself," he cried, "but that is all-

I can’t tell you just how wonderful she is. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.

Amory wondered how people could fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory, and when faces of the throng turned toward him and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of fourteen.

France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter - it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.

The transition from libertine to prig was so complete.