Rather nice night, after all. Stars are out and everything. Exceptionally tasty assortment of them.

It was a curious day, slashed abruptly with fleeting, familiar impressions.

You said a bad driver is only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn't I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.

In perspective it was tremendous.

There was the starlight set upon the brilliant darkness; and there were her pale cool cheeks, and he let himself be lost in love for her, as he had so wanted to do.

She was one of those people who are famous beyond their actual achievement.

For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.