It Is No More Effort For A

Angels May Be Very Excellent Sort Of Folk In Their Way, But We, Poor Mortals, In Our Present State, Would Probably Find Them Precious Slow Company.

The Facts Of Life Are The Impossibilities Of Fiction.

The Odour Of Burgundy, And The Smell Of French Sauces, And The Sight Of Clean Napkins And Long Loaves, Knocked As A Very Welcome Visitor At The Door Of Our Inner Man.

When A Man Or Woman Loves To Brood Over A Sorrow And Takes Care To Keep It Green In Their Memory, You May Be Sure It Is No Longer A Pain To Them.

It Seems To Me So Shocking To See The Precious Hours Of A Man's Life - The Priceless Moments That Will Never Come Back To Him Again - Being Wasted In A Mere Brutish Sleep.