They Had Spent A Year In France

There Is No Confusion Like The Confusion Of A Simple Mind.

I Like France, Where Everybody Thinks He's Napoleon--down Here Everybody Thinks He's Christ.

Optimism Is The Content Of Small Men In High Places.

When The First-rate Author Wants An Exquisite Heroine Or A Lovely Morning, He Finds That All The Superlatives Have Been Worn Shoddy By His Inferiors. It Should Be A Rule That Bad Writers Must Start With Plain Heroines And Ordinary Mornings, And, If They Are Able, Work Up To Something Better.

The Unwelcome November Rain Had Perversely Stolen The Day's Last Hour And Pawned It With That Ancient Fence, The Night.