Pride is a sweetmeat, to be savoured in small pieces; it makes for a poor feast.

. . . the first spring in five free from the rumour of guns across the Channel, a spring anxious to make up for the cold winter, life bursting out after four years of death. All of England raised her face to the sun. . .

Men do, I've found, accept the most errant nonsense from a well dressed woman

I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen years old with my nose in a book as I walked the Sussex Downs, and nearly stepped on him. In my defense I must say it was an engrossing book, and it was very rare to come across another person in that particular part of the world in that war year of 1915.

I crawled into my book and pulled the pages over my head.

You cannot help being a female, and I should be something of a fool were I to discount your talents merely because of their housing.

What does it mean, to lose one's mind? Where does it go? If a man is out of his mind, where is he? What is insane when the world is mad by contrast?