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flustered by Cecil’s narrative economy.
a trait i'm guilty of - make a long story short!
“I hope you won’t mind,” he said, “if I excuse myself,” and he left the room with the clear feeling that no one did.
the arrogance of confidence - or is it the confidence of arrogance?
Their hands seemed somehow locked away from any mutual use they might have been put to, and although the two of them were busily in conversation, George throwing back his head to lend weight to his pronouncements, they looked much more like colleagues than like a couple.
the disguises and distractions that lovers used to conceal the truth
Dudley himself, with the touchy geniality of a man who is never in the wrong, was talking to Sebby Stokes, whose natural diplomacy just about carried him through. It was understood that no Valance would ever apologize for anything.
that's an arrogant aristocratic sentiment that has never faded
She had the transparent aura of old age, was notable and ignorable at the same time.
sadly true of old age
He was asking for memories, too young himself to know that memories were only memories of memories.
the infallibility of the human mind and the interpretations we decide upon each time we 'remember' something
Certain of her incidents were tied indubitably to Berkshire or Chelsea, but a host of others took place against a general-purpose scenery, as in some repertory theatre, of drinks-tray and mirrors and chintz-covered sofas, blending all social life into one staggeringly extended run.
who would love the never-ending boredom of hearing people talk about how exciting their lives have been..
she’d read, novels, biographies, occasional books about music and art—she could remember nothing about them at all, so that it seemed rather pointless even to say that she had read them; such claims were a thing people set great store by but she hardly supposed they recalled any more than she did.
thankfully in this day and age we have goodreads and hilights that help us remember what we've read - otherwise i'm the same as daphne at my age...
“No, that must be awfully annoying.” “Well, less awfully, more bloody, actually, as Alfred, Lord Tennyson said to my father.”
wouldn't that be a lovely quote to throw into a conversation at a dinner party...
his voice, with its rich boozy throb and its restless dry wit, seemed to possess the room and put them all, half-forgivingly, in their place,
wonderful description of a voice that perfectly describes the man
