About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.

My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.

It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.

and even a tea party means apprehension, breakage

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

All looked distant and peaceful and strange. The shore seemed refined, far away, unreal. Already the little distance they had sailed had put them far from it and given it the changed look, the composed look, of something receding in which one has no longer any part.