A Dance To The Music Of Time.

[t]here Is No Greater Sign Of Innate Misery Than A Love Of Teasing.

Dinner At The Huntercombes' Possessed Only Two Dramatic Features - The Wine Was A Farce And The Food A Tragedy.

Few Persons Who Have Ever Sat For A Portrait Can Have Felt Anything But Inferior While The Process Is Going On.

He Gave Me A Look Of Great Contempt; As I Supposed, For Venturing, Even By Implication, To Draw A Parallel Between A Lack Of Affluence That Might, Literally, Affect My Purchase Of Rare Vintages, And A Figure Of Speech Intended Delicately To Convey His Own Dire Want For The Bare Necessities Of Life. He Remained Silent For Several Seconds, As If Trying To Make Up His Mind Whether He Could Ever Bring Himself To Speak To Me Again; And Then Said Gruffly: 'i've Got To Go Now.'

He Fell In Love With Himself At First Sight And It Is A Passion To Which He Has Always Remained Faithful. Selflove Seems So Often Unrequited.