She haunted him, as an ungenerous action haunts one.
The rumble of the life outside was like the sound of the sea which was rising gradually around her.
The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.
I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.
Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights.
I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.