They were still in the happier stages of love. They were full of brave illusions about each other, tremendous illusions, so that the communion of self with self seemed to be on a plane where no other human relations mattered.

She was a mischief, and that was a satisfaction; no longer was she a huntress of corralled game

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.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I like people and I like them to like me, but I wear my heart where God put it, on the inside.

What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?

I can’t exactly describe how I feel but it’s not quite right. And it leaves me cold.