Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply.
The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered unhappiness.
I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger bowls of champagne and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental and profound.
Never miss a party...good for the nerves--like celery.
I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.
He was so terrible that he was no longer terrible, only dehumanized.