Then she added in a sort of childish delight: 'We'll be poor, won't we? Like people in books. And I'll be an orphan and utterly free. Free and poor! What fun!' She stopped and raised her lips to him in a delighted kiss. 'It's impossible to be both together,' said John grimly. 'People have found that out. And I should choose to be free as preferable of the two.

She was incurably dishonest.

There are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice.

She was overstrained with grief and loneliness: almost any shoulder would have done as well.

People invariably chose inimitable people to imitate.

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

The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American.