As it was in the beginning, ... is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.
She could give herself up to the written word as naturally as a good dancer to music or a fine swimmer to water. The only difficulty was that after finishing the last sentence she was left with a feeling at once hollow and uncomfortably full. Exactly like indigestion.
Have all beautiful things sad destinies?
She haunted him, as an ungenerous action haunts one.
One realized all sorts of things. The value of an illusion, for instance, and that the shadow can be more important than the substance. All sorts of things.