Some years ago there was in the city of York a society of magicians. They met upon the third Wednesday of every month and read each other long, dull papers upon the history of English magic.

He understood for the first time that the world is not dumb at all, but merely waiting for someone to speak to it in a language it understands.

Ha!' said the tall man drily. 'He was in high luck. Rich old uncles who die are in shockingly short supply.

Lovers are rarely the most rational beings in creation.

Mr. Robinson was a polished sort of person. He was so clean and healthy and pleased about everything that he positively shone - which is only to be expected in a fairy or an angel, but is somewhat disconcerting in an attorney.

All books are doors; and some of them are wardrobes.

He smiles but rarely and watches other men to see when they laugh and then does the same.