If this was love, love had been overrated.
If the artist is necessarily sensitive, does that sensitiveness form in its essence a state constantly liable to shade off into the morbid? Does this liability, moreover, increase in proportion as the effort is great and the ambition intense?
She had a certain way of looking at life which he took as a personal offense.
I hold any writer sufficiently justified who is himself in love with his theme.
She was a woman who, between courses, could be graceful with her elbows on the table.
Which of you with taking thought can add to his stature one cubit?