He was one of those earnest, persevering dancers--the kind that have taken twelve correspondence lessons.

He had just about enough intelligence to open his mouth when he wanted to eat, but certainly no more.

I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

As Shakespeare says, if you're going to do a thing you might as well pop right at it and get it over.

It ought to be a criminal offence for women to dye their hair. Especially red. What the devil do women do that sort of thing for?

Boyhood, like measles, is one of those complaints which a man should catch young and have done with, for when it comes in middle life it is apt to be serious.

I don’t know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against when I’m telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.