If this is love, there is something highly ridiculous about it.
I would never re-write you. You are by far my most complete and greatest novel.
One must strain off what was personal and accidental in all these impressions and so reach the pure fluid, the essential oil of truth.
For she felt a sudden emptiness; a frustration. Her feeling had come too late; there it was ready; but he no longer needed it.
But the room was empty. The fire was still blazing; the chairs, drawn out in a circle, still seemed to hold the skeleton of the party in their empty arms.
That was the worst of growing up, she thought; they couldn't share things as they used to share them.