“Dying in your arms sounds like bliss to me.”

“His arms held me like a vice, and I wondered if he would crush the life from me, and it occurred to me that I didn’t care as long as I died in his arms...”

“Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh.”

“What's your name, love?"Love? LOVE! Still dying, here."Bliss.""Is that a line?"I blushed crimson. "No, it's my name.""Lovely name for a lovely girl.”

“His eldest sister (who modestly prefers to be identified here as a Tuckahoe homemaker) has asked me to describe him as looking like 'the blue-eyed Jewish-Irish Mohican scout who died in your arms at the roulette table at Monte Carlo.”

“And now if you'll excuse me, I should like to finish my book, alone, without the presence of a single ringleted girl to disrupt me. If you should come for me at dinner and find me in my chair, gone to the angels at last, you shall know that I died alone, which is to say in a state of utter bliss.”