However British You May Be, I Am

The Time-honored Bread-sauce Of The Happy Ending.

You Seemed To Me To Be Soaring Far Up In The Blue - To Be Sailing In The Bright Light, Over The Heads Of Men. Suddenly Some One Tosses Up A Faded Rosebud - A Missile That Should Never Have Reached You - And Down You Drop To The Ground.

I Hold Any Writer Sufficiently Justified Who Is Himself In Love With His Theme.

All Roads Lead To Rome, And There Were Times When It Might Have Struck Us That Almost Every Branch Of Study Or Subject Of Conversation Skirted Forbidden Ground.

I Would Give All I Possess To Get Out Of Myself; But Somehow, At The End, I Find Myself So Vastly More Interesting Than Nine Tenths Of The People I Meet.