But words have been used too often; touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.

You cannot find peace by avoiding life.

Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?

I read the book of Job last night, I don't think God comes out well in it.

The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.

But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

For there is a virtue in truth; it has an almost mystic power. Like radium, it seems to give off forever and ever grains of energy, atoms of light.