Conceit is an outward manifestation of inferiority.
The pleasures that once were heaven look silly at sixty-seven.
I will accept anything in the theatre . . . provided it amuses or moves me. But if it does neither, I want to go home.
For gin, in cruel sober truth, supplies the fuel for flaming youth.
How was your flight? Well, aeronautically it was a great success. Socially, it left quite a bit to be desired.
Bed is the perfect climate.