There was a serenity about him always that had the look of innocence, when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.

Twice Flush had done his utmost to kill his enemy; twice he had failed. And why had he failed, he asked himself? Because he loved Miss Barrett. Looking up at her from under his eyebrows as she lay, severe and silent on the sofa, he knew that he must love her for ever. Things are not simple but complex. If he bit Mr. Browning he bit her too. Hatred is not hatred; hatred is also love.

When people are happy they have a reserve upon which to draw, whereas she was like a wheel without a tyre

Marvelous are the innocent.

The connection between dress and war is not far to seek; your finest clothes are those you wear as soldiers.

Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.

But I think I’m coloured by my own wishes, & experimental mood.