I like a bit of color myself, I must say. At my time of life, if you wear nothing but black, people might think you were too mean to change frocks between funerals.

Is this the final treachery of time, that the old become a burden upon the young?

But to write - that is grief and labor; and to read what one has written - how unlike the story as one saw it; how dull, how spirtless - that is enough to send one weeping to bed.

You are quite, quite wrong if you think that ... I find your happiness painful. What matters is that happiness - the golden day - should exist in the world, not much to whom it comes. For all of us it is so transitory a thing, how could one not draw joy from its arrival?

Everybody's tragedy is somebody's nuisance.

Progress. There's a good deal too much o' this progress about nowadays, an', what's more, it'll have to stop.

why haven't we seventy lives? One is no use.