They weren't happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale---and yet they weren't unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.

Well, I can't describe her exactly-except to say that she was beautiful. She was-tremendously alive.

People living alone get used to loneliness.

This is what I think now: that the natural state of the sentient adult is a qualified unhappiness.

She was incurably dishonest.

There was not a moving up into vacated places; there was simply an anachronistic staying on between a vanishing past and an incalculable future.

What people are ashamed of usually makes a good story.