On the large library table were a couple of brass candlesticks with fresh candles (Adrian could not work by electric light), a couple of reams of scribbling paper, an inkpot, an immaculate blotting pad, three virgin quill pens (it was one of Adrian's whimsies to write always with quills), lying in a brass dish, and an office stationery case closed and aggressively new.

The sight of this last monstrosity, I thought, would play the deuce with my imagination and send it on a devastating tour round the Tottenham Court Road, but not having the artistic temperament and catching a glance of challenge from Doria, I forebore to make ignorant criticism.
In the bedroom while Barbara was putting on her veil and powdering her nose (this may be what grammarians call a _hysteron proteron_--but with women one never can tell)--Doria broke into confidences not meet for masculine ears.
* * * * * "Oh, darling," she cried, looking at Barbara with great awe-stricken eyes, "you can't tell what it means to be married to a genius like Adrian.

I feel like one of the Daughters of Men that has been looked upon by one of the Sons of God.

It's so strange.

In ordinary life he's so dear and human--responsive, you know, to everything I feel and think--and sometimes I quite forget he's different from me.