One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I am unable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for the time being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-old situation.

Whenever I have that sad, depressed feeling, I go out and kill a policeman.

My motto is 'Love and let love' - with the one stipulation that people who love in glass-houses should breathe on the windows.

He had the look of one who had drunk the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom.

I don't know if you know it, J.B., but you're the sort of fellow who causes hundreds to fall under suspicion when he's found stabbed in his library with a paper-knife of Oriental design.

No one so dislikes being punished unjustly as the person who might have been punished justly on scores of previous occasions, if he had only been found out.

Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly slipping lead into the boxing-glove.