The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.

Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did.

I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.

If it were not for quotations, conversations between gentlemen would consist of an endless series of 'what-ho!'s.

When a girl uses six derogatory adjectives in her attempt to paint the portrait of the loved one, it means something. One may indicate a merely temporary tiff. Six is big stuff.

If he had a mind, there was something on it.

I'm not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it's Shakespeare who says that it's always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with the bit of lead piping.