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It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being. This, too, was quite characteristic of Amory.
They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
"Nobody seems to bore you," he objected. "About half the world do," she admitted, "but I think that's a pretty good average, don't you?"
She made her goodness such an asset. Amory had decided that most good people either dragged theirs after them as a liability, or else distorted it to artificial geniality, and of course there were the ever-present prig and Pharisee—(but Amory never included them as being among the saved).
"Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let me say a word." "Of course not—I can never judge a man while he's talking.
This crisis-inspired religion is rather valueless and fleeting at best. I think four men have discovered Paris to one that discovered God.
I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.
She is quite unprincipled; her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez faire for others.
