It Is Quite A Three-pipe Problem.

The Ways Of Fate Are Indeed Hard To Understand. If There Is Not Some Compensation Hereafter, Then The World Is A Cruel Jest.

It Was An Ideal Spring Day, A Light Blue Sky, Flecked With Little Fleecy White Clouds Drifting Across From West To East. The Sun Was Shining Very Brightly, And Yet There Was An Exhilarating Nip In The Air, Which Set An Edge To A Man's Energy.

It Has Always Seemed To Me That So Long As You Produce Your Dramatic Effect, Accuracy Of Detail Matters Little. I Have Never Striven For It And I Have Made Some Bad Mistakes In Consequence. What Matter If I Hold My Readers?

Evil Indeed Is The Man Who Has Not One Woman To Mourn Him.

London, That Great Cesspool Into Which All The Loungers And Idlers Of The Empire Are Irresistibly Drained.