Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind.

I am volatile for one, rigid for another, angular as an icicle in silver, or voluptuous as a candle flame in gold.

I was in a queer mood, thinking myself very old: but now I am a woman again - as I always am when I write.

To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have- to want and want- how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!

But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was almost impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them.

old emotions like old families have intermarried and have many connections.

The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.