[money] Is The String With Which A

The Trouble With Young Writers Is That They Are All In Their Sixties.

She Had No Mercy. He Looked At Her Neck And Thought How He Would Like To Jab It With The Knife He Had For His Muffin. He Knew Enough Anatomy To Make Pretty Certain Of Getting The Carotid Artery. And At The Same Time He Wanted To Cover Her Pale, Thin Face With Kisses.

The Normal Is What You Find But Rarely. The Normal Is An Ideal. It Is A Picture That One Fabricates Of The Average Characteristics Of Men, And To Find Them All In A Single Man Is Hardly To Be Expected.

The Writer Of Prose Can Only Step Aside When The Poet Passes...

There Are Few Things So Pleasant As A Picnic Eaten In Perfect Comfort.