Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.

Shaw's works make me admire the magnificent tolerance and broadmindedness of the english.

The pleasures of love lasts but a fleeting but the pledges of life outlusts a lieftime.

One of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature.

I confess that I do not see what good it does to fulminate against the English tyranny while the Roman tyranny occupies the palace of the soul.

The swift December dusk had come tumbling clownishly after its dull day and, as he stared through the dull square of the window of the schoolroom, he felt his belly crave for its food. He hoped there would be stew for dinner, turnips and carrots and bruised potatoes and fat mutton pieces to be ladled out in thick peppered flourfattened sauce. Stuff it into you, his belly counselled him.

His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.