It’s just us. We’re pitiful, that’s all. The very qualities I love you for are the ones that will always make you a failure.
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.
Our specialty is stories about little girls who break their spines and get adopted by grouchy old men because they smile so much. You’d think we were a race of cheerful cripples and that the common end of the Russian peasant was suicide – ” “Six.
They had forgotten – as people inevitably forget.
Fine dives have been made from flimsier spring-boards.
Lover! Lover! I can’t do with you, and I can’t imagine life without you.
I’ve just finished a book of his, ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray,’ and I certainly wish you’d read it. You’d like.
He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes.
There was only one fly in the delicious ointment.
You know I’m old in some ways – in others – well, I’m just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness – and I dread responsibility. I don’t want to think about pots and kitchens and brooms. I want to worry whether my legs will get slick and brown when I swim in the summer.
And his mind strong and subtle like the mind of Cuchulin.
Why are all the exciting things so uncomfortable.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York – and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land.
None of the Victorian mothers – and most of the mothers were Victorian – had any idea how casually their daughters were accustomed to be kissed.
She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite sadness.
They had senselessly begun to abuse each other’s love, tear it into shreds.
The ‘belle’ had become the ‘flirt’, the ‘flirt’ had become the ‘baby vamp’.
As the new alcohol tumbled into his stomach and warmed him, the isolated pictures began slowly to form a cinema reel of the day before.
Don’t misunderstand! Amory ad loved Rosalind as he would never love another living person. She had taken the first flush of his youth and brought from his unplumbed depth tenderness that had surprised him, gentleness and unselfishness that he had never given to another creature. He had later affairs, but of a different sort: in those he went back to that, perhaps, more typical frame of mind, in which the girl became the mirror of a mood in him.
My Lord, no man can stand prominence these days. It’s the surest path to obscurity. People get sick of hearing the same name over and over.