He was a thorough good sort; a bit limited; a bit thick in the head; yes; but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way; without a touch of imagination, without a sparkle of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type.

Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.

Consolation for those moments when you can't tell whether you're the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.

Suppose the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is seen by other people - what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of glassiness, in our eyes.

I am reading Henry James...and feel myself as one entombed in a block of smooth amber.

O friendship, I too will press flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets!