She wanted to exist only as a conscious flower, prolonging and preserving herself

one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty−one that everything afterward savors of anti−climax.

Her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez faire for others.

I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie.

He lifted his arms to the crystaline, radiant sky. "I know myself," he cried, "but that is all.

One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual.

Don't be so anxious about it,' she laughed. 'I'm not used to being loved. I wouldn't know what to do; I never got the trick of it.' She looked down at him, shy and fatigued. 'So here we are. I told you years ago that I had the makings of Cinderella.' He took her hand; she drew it back instinctively and then replaced it in his. 'Beg your pardon. Not even used to being touched. But I'm not afraid of you, if you stay quiet and don't move suddenly.