In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment in June.

Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?

Facts must be manipulated; some must be brightened; others shaded; yet, in the process, they must never lose their integrity.

Who shall blame him? Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off, and halts by the window and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distant at first, gradually come closer and closer, till lips and book and head are clearly before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar from the intensity of his isolation and the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars, and finally putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent head before her—who will blame him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?

My notion's to think of the human beings first and let the abstract ideas take care of themselves.

In marriage a little licence, a little independence there must be between people living together day in and day out in the same house.

After that, how unbelievable death was! - that is must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all.