Alone$$$ I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.

The mountains were his masters. They rimmed in life. They were the cup of reality$$$ beyond growth$$$ beyond struggle and death. They were his absolute unity in the midst of eternal change.

He shimmered out$$$ and I sat up in bed with that rather unpleasant feeling you get sometimes that you're going to die in about five minutes.

With each new book of mine I have always the feeling that this time I have picked a lemon in the garden of literature.

Hugo?<br>"Millicent? Is that you?"<br>"Yes. Is that you?"<br>"Yes." Anything in the nature of misunderstanding was cleared away. It was both of them.

I never want to see anyone$$$ and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write.

Like so many substantial citizens of America$$$ he had married young and kept on marrying$$$ springing from blonde to blonde like the chamois of the Alps leaping from crag to crag.

It was one of those days you sometimes get latish in the autumn when the sun beams$$$ the birds toot$$$ and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.

A girl who bonnets a policeman with an ashcan full of bottles is obviously good wife-and-mother timber.

It isn't often that Aunt Dahlia lets her angry passions rise$$$ but when she does$$$ strong men climb trees and pull them up after them.