Well, Rachel," he concluded, dismissing the vision of London, "we shall be doing that together in six weeks' time, and it'll be the middle of June then--and June in London--my God! how pleasant it all is!" "And we're certain to have it too," she said.

"It isn't as if we were expecting a great deal--only to walk about and look at things." "Only a thousand a year and perfect freedom," he replied.

"How many people in London d'you think have that ?" "And now you've spoilt it," she complained.

"Now we've got to think of the horrors." She looked grudgingly at the novel which had once caused her perhaps an hour's discomfort, so that she had never opened it again, but kept it on her table, and looked at it occasionally, as some medieval monk kept a skull, or a crucifix to remind him of the frailty of the body.
"Is it true, Terence," she demanded, "that women die with bugs crawling across their faces ?" "I think it's very probable," he said.

"But you must admit, Rachel, that we so seldom think of anything but ourselves that an occasional twinge is really rather pleasant." Accusing him of an affection of cynicism which was just as bad as sentimentality itself, she left her position by his side and knelt upon the window sill, twisting the curtain tassels between her fingers.