The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty observations, has a romance of its own.

But Time, unfortunately, though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and fade with amazing punctuality has no such simple effect upon the mind of man.

Come indoors then, and open the books on your library shelves. For you have a library and a good one. A working library, a living library; a library where nothing is chained down and nothing is locked up; a library where the songs of the singers rise naturally from the lives of the livers.

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

. . . to walk alone in London is the greatest rest.

To know whom to write for is to know how to write.

Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?