The Feeling Of Sunday Is The Same

Love Was A Terrible Thing. You Poisoned It And Stabbed At It And Knocked It Down Into The Mud - Well Down - And It Got Up And Staggered On, Bleeding And Muddy And Awful. Like - Like Rasputin.

If All Good, Respectable People Had One Face, I'd Spit In It.

She Haunted Him, As An Ungenerous Action Haunts One.

Not That She Objected To Solitude. Quite The Contrary. She Had Books, Thank Heaven, Quantities Of Books. All Sorts Of Books.

I Found When I Was A Child That If I Put The Hurt Into Words, It Would Go.