I Stretched Out My Hand Towards The

Novel Writing Is A Kind Of Private Pleasure, Even If Nothing Comes Of It In Worldly Terms.

Of Course It's All Right For Librarians To Smell Of Drink.

Oh, This Coming Back To An Empty House,' Rupert Thought, When He Had Seen Her Safely Up To Her Door. People - Though Perhaps It Was Only Women - Seemed To Make So Much Of It. As If Life Itself Were Not As Empty As The House One Was Coming Back To.

There Are Some Things Too Dreadful To Be Revealed, And It Is Even More Dreadful How, In Spite Of Our Better Instincts,we Long To Know About Them.

The Small Things Of Life Were Often So Much Bigger Than The Great Things . . . The Trivial Pleasure Like Cooking, One's Home, Little Poems Especially Sad Ones, Solitary Walks, Funny Things Seen And Overheard.