They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat's shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.

What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?

Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy.

Even when everything seems rotten you can't trust that judgment. It's the sum of all your judgments that counts.

Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains.

What a wonderful song, she thought-everything was wonderful tonight, most of all this romantic scene in the den with their hands clinging and the inevitable looming charmingly close. The future vista of her life seemed an unending succession of scenes like this: under moonlight and pale starlight, and in the backs of warm limousines and in low cosy roadsters stopped under sheltering trees-only the boy might change, and this one was so nice.

You're the only girl I've seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.