“Dear Sir: Regarding your article 'What's Wrong with the World?' I am. Yours truly,”

“I walk beneath your pens, and am not what I truly am, but what you'd prefer to imagine me.”

“[...]my memory is reasonably good—unlike yours, dear sir!”“Mine is erratic,” he said imperturbably. “I remember only what interests me.”

“Dear World, I am leaving because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.”

“How's the blood-stream, my dear, invaluable little woman? How's the blood-stream?"..."It's quite comfortable, sir...I think, sir, thank you."..."Aha!"..."a comfortable stream, is it? Aha! v-e-r-y good. V-e-r-y good. Dawdling 'twixt hill and hill, no doubt. Meandering through groves of bone, threading the tissues and giving what sustenance it can to your dear old body...I am so glad. But in yourself - right deep down in yourself - how do you feel? Carnally speaking, are you at peace - from the dear grey hairs of your head to the patter of your little feet - are you at peace?" "What does he mean, dear?" said poor Mrs. Slagg, clutching Fuschia's arm...."He wants to know if you feel well or not.”

“I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance”