How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.
It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.
It is no use trying to sum people up.
For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.
No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low.