He was either a man of about a hundred and fifty who was rather young for his years, or a man of about a hundred and ten who had been aged by trouble.

The Duke of Dunstable had one-way pockets. He would walk ten miles in the snow to chisel an orphan out of tuppence.

Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.

In every romance you have to budget for the occasional dust-up.

He felt like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg.

He shimmered out, and I sat up in bed with that rather unpleasant feeling you get sometimes that you're going to die in about five minutes.

You would not enjoy Nietzsche, sir. He is fundamentally unsound.