It flattered her, where she was most susceptible of flattery, to think how, wound about in their hearts, however long they lived she would be woven...

Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.

Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.

...It struck her, this was tragedy-- not palls, dust, and the shroud; but children coerced, their spirits subdued.

About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.

He looked very old. He looked, James thought, getting his head now against the Lighthouse, now against the waste of waters running away into the open, like some old stone lying on the sand; he looked as if he had become physically what was always at the back of both of their minds—that loneliness which was for both of them the truth about things.