He looked haggard and careworn, like a Borgia who has suddenly remembered that he has forgotten to shove cyanide in the consommé, and the dinner-gong due any moment.

When you're alone you don't do much laughing.

The storm is over, there is sunlight in my heart. I have a glass of wine and sit thinking of what has passed.

Other men puffed, snorted, and splashed. George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity of a torpedo. Other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint, anon, maybe, a quart or so, and returned to the shore like foundering derelicts. George's mouth had all the exclusiveness of a fashionable club. His breast stroke was a thing to see and wonder at. When he did the crawl, strong men gasped. When he swam on his back, you felt that that was the only possible method of progression.

Woman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem we men can never hope to solve.

It's curious how, when you're in love, you yearn to go about doing acts of kindness to everybody.

His whole aspect was that of a man who has unexpectedly been struck by lightning.