And it was awfully strange, he thought, how she still had the power, as she came tinkling, rustling, still had the power as she came across the room, to make the moon, which he detested, rise at Bourton on the terrace in the summer sky.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

The depths of the sea are only water after all.

A sort of transaction went on between them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another, and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly.

There are moments when one can neither think nor feel, she thought, and if one can neithre feel nor think, where's one?