But he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid than despair, of incessant passage up or down.

His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed —that voice was a deathless song.

Look at that,' she whispered, and then after a moment: 'I'd like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.

but they were frightened at his survivant will, once a will to live, now become a will to die.

I won’t kiss you. It might get to be a habit and I can’t get rid of habits.

He lifted his arms to the crystaline, radiant sky. "I know myself," he cried, "but that is all.

She wanted to crawl into his pocket and be safe forever.