It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.

Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.

Peter would think her sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying – what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt.

My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.

Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.

Books are everywhere; and always the same sense of adventure fills us. Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world.

In marriage a little licence, a little independence there must be between people living together day in and day out in the same house.