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.

Beware the artist who's an intellectual also. The artist who doesn't fit.

When he buys his ties he has to ask if gin will make them run.

There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.

The world, as a rule, does not live on beaches and in country clubs.

all the time something within her was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately — and the decision must be made by some force — of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality — that was close at hand

What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours?