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

I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.

The rumble of the life outside was like the sound of the sea which was rising gradually around her.

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.

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.

Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books.

I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.