Here and there one could see brown panelling inside the hall door....

The march that the mind keeps beneath the windows of others is queer enough.

Now distracted by brown panelling; now by a fern in a pot; here improvising a few phrases to dance with the barrel-organ; again snatching a detached gaiety from a drunken man; then altogether absorbed by words the poor shout across the street at each other (so outright, so lusty)--yet all the while having for centre, for magnet, a young man alone in his room.
"Life is wicked--life is detestable," cried Rose Shaw.
The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.

The streets of London have their map; but our passions are uncharted.

What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?
"Holborn straight ahead of you," says the policeman.