she kept sliding down, in small half-willing surrenders, till she was a heap, with the book held tiringly above her face.
The worse they are the more they see beauty in each other.
There is a sort of aesthetic poverty about conservatism
There was the noise itself, which he thought of vaguely as the noise of classical music, sameish and rhetorical, full of feelings people surely never had
On the stairs he was crying so much he hardly saw where he was going – not a mad boo-hoo but wailing sheets of tears, shaken into funny groans by the bump of each step as he hurried down.
She felt that at some point she must finally and formally talk to Louisa about Hubert, and ask her to acknowledge that the worst possible thing had happened to her as well.
He wanted pure compliments, just as he wanted unconditional love.
He was asking for memories, too young himself to know that memories were only memories of memories.
Delight is délice, délit is a misdemeanour”Well, it’s bloody close…”Well, they often are….
Andrew Davies has said he prefers his authors dead, and I can see there is only a limited usefulness in a live one when it comes to adaptation.
He was an animal, that great thing for someone else to be.