One Knows So Little. When One Knows

Fey...a Scotch Word...it Means The Kind Of Exalted Happiness That Comes Before Disaster. You Know--it's Too Good To Be True.

We Are The Same People As We Were At Three, Six, Ten Or Twenty Years Old. More Noticeably So, Perhaps, At Six Or Seven, Because We Were Not Pretending So Much Then.

One Of Us In This Very Room Is In Fact The Murderer.

I Am Not Mad. I Am Eccentric Perhaps--at Least Certain People Say So; But As Regards My Profession. I Am Very Much As One Says, 'all There.

Bad Temper Is Its Own Safety Valve. He Who Can Bark Does Not Bite.