After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.

There was a day when I liked writing letters -- it has gone. Unfortunately the passion for getting them remains.

But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.

In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.

Half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.

Here I come to one of the memoir writer's difficulties -- one of the reasons why, though I read so many, so many are failures. They leave out the person to whom things happened. The reason is that it is so difficult to describe any human being. So they say: 'This is what happened'; but they do not say what the person was like to whom it happened. And the events mean very little unless we know first to whom they happened.

It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.