My Yardstick Is How Somebody Treats Me.

But It's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks Are Slow On Sundays.

The Instant She Saw The Letter She Squinted Her Eyes And Bent Her Lips In A Tough Tiny Smile That Advanced Her Age Immeasurably. "darling," She Instructed Me, "would You Reach In The Drawer There And Give Me My Purse. A Girl Doesn't Read This Sort Of Thing Without Her Lipstick.

I Want To Still Be Me When I Wake Up One Fine Morning And Have Breakfast At Tiffany´s.

A Conversation Is A Dialogue, Not A Monologue. That's Why There Are So Few Good Conversations: Due To Scarcity, Two Intelligent Talkers Seldom Meet.

Are The Dead As Lonesome As The Living?