So that is marriage, Lily thought, a man and a woman looking at a girl throwing a ball

The chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much-talked-of-man.

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual

Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.

...the problem of space remained, she thought, taking up her brush again. It glared at her. The whole mass of the picture was poised upon that weight. Beautiful and bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly's wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron.

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

It is the duty of the writer to describe.