There are certain people who seem doomed to buy certain houses. The house expects them. It waits for them.

Murderers will try to recall the sequence of events, they will remember exactly what they did just before and just after. But they can never remember the actual moment of killing. This is why they will always leave a clue.

It is strange, is it not, how a person can adore one's soul so much that they adore one's body also?

I strike up conversations all the time and it is very interesting, finding out about things I know nothing about.

The endless chatter of this journey had wearied me.

The embrace of present and past time, in which English antiquarianism becomes a form of alchemy, engenders a strange timelessness. It is as if the little bird which flew through the Anglo-Saxon banqueting hall, in Bede's Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, gained the outer air and became the lark ascending in Vaughan Williams's orchestral setting. The unbroken chain is that of English music itself.

I had to paraphrase the paraphrase.