“Life stand still here.”

“There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.”

“Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day”

“Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day.”

“It was awful, he cried, awful, awful!Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day.”

“Still, life had a way of adding day to day”

“Happy the mother who bears, happier still the biographer who records the life of such a one!”