A prettiness mummified by years of chalk dust.

But even of him I can think of with sorrow, now at this moment.

Those times, those people...have gone. How can there be fury felt for things that are gone to dust.

Remember with whom thou hast to do: what canst thou expect from dust but levity; or from corruption, but defilement(33)?

In the middle of the silence in a writer's house lies an invalid: the book being worked on.

A kind of duet-she as oboe, he as contrabassoon, and full of obbligato digressions.

[He] is a tall, grandly built man; [she] tall and delicate. Both are narrow-faced with long, imperial noses; as they pose for pictures, it is a turkey buzzard sharing companionably with an egret.