When my prose glows with fiery beauty, the tea is getting well hold of my digestive organs, and by the time it has begun to prove its power by giving me a violent pain in the stomach, I have wrung from it a fine scene which will help to consolidate my fame.

When a man wins the Victoria Cross, his healthy body has done the deed, unprompted by anything higher.

Good air, or a muscular life, has strung his nerves strongly so that he can't, even if he would, appreciate danger.

On the other hand, when a man shows funk, turns tail and bolts, and is dubbed a coward, it's his beastly body again.

Some obscure physical misfortune is the cause of his disgrace, and if he'd only been to you he would have won the Cross too.