A man who pretends to understand women is bad manners. For him to really to understand them is bad morals.
When you forget to eat, you know you're alive.
However British you may be, I am more British still.
He is the same old sausage, fizzing and sputtering in his own grease.
Of course what he most intensely dreams of is being taken out on walks, and the more you are able to indulge him the more will he adore you and the more all the latent beauty of his nature will come out.
The house of fiction has in short not one window, but a million, ... but they are, singly, as nothing without the posted presence of the watcher.