Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.

Biography is to give a man some kind of shape after his death.

She came into a room; she stood, as he had often seen her, in a doorway with lots of people round her. But it was Clarissa one remembered. Not that she was striking; not beautiful at all; there was nothing picturesque about her; she never said anything specially clever; there she was however; there she was.

Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day

I like people to be unhappy because I like them to have souls.

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title.