I Don’t Want Just Words. If That’s

To A Profound Pessimist About Life, Being In Danger Is Not Depressing.

They Had Never Been Closer In Their Month Of Love, Nor Communicated More Profoundly One With Another, Than When She Brushed Silent Lips Against His Coat's Shoulder Or When He Touched The End Of Her Fingers, Gently, As Though She Were Asleep.

A Writer's Temperament Is Continually Making Him Do Things He Can Never Repair.

She Wanted To Crawl Into His Pocket And Be Safe Forever.

My Latest Tendency Is To Collapse About 11:00 And With The Tears Flowing From My Eyes Or The Gin Rising To Their Level And Leaking Over, And Tell Interested Friends Or Acquaintances That I Haven't A Friend In The World And Likewise Care For Nobody.