It was as though she was an exile from a world that saw things her way
Tristan and Isolde were lucky to die when they did. They'd have been sick of all that rubbish in a year.
Love affairs are for emotional sprinters; the pleasures of love are for the emotional marathoners.
The book forces itself into my mind when I am lugging furniture, or pulling weeds.
Many a promising career has been wrecked by marrying the wrong sort of woman.
Nothing grows old-fashioned so fast as modernity.