...I know all about myself now, I know. You've told me so often. You haven't left me one rag of illusion to clothe myself in.

I have tried," I said, "but he does not believe me. It is too late for that now" (it is always too late for truth, I thought).

Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.

A room? A nice room? A beautiful room? A beautiful room with bath? Swing high, swing low, swing to and fro...This happened and that happened... And then the days came and I was alone.

I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.

Something in her brain that still remained calm told her that she was doing a very foolish thing indeed.

For the first time she had dimly realized that only the hopeless are starkly sincere and that only the unhappy can either give or take sympathy--even some of the bitter and dangerous voluptuousness of misery.