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.

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.

Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world.

How are we to account for the strange human craving for the pleasure of feeling afraid which is so much involved in our love of ghost stories?

Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.

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

A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.