I was thinking chiefly of English.

Her criticisms of my play, though they're too generous, evidently immature--she can't be more than twenty-two, I suppose ?--they certainly show the sort of thing one wants: real feeling for poetry, understanding, not formed, of course, but it's at the root of everything after all.

There'd be no harm in lending her books ?" "No.

Certainly not." "But if it--hum--led to a correspondence?
I mean, Katharine, I take it, without going into matters which seem to me a little morbid, I mean," he floundered, "you, from your point of view, feel that there's nothing disagreeable to you in the notion?
If so, you've only to speak, and I never think of it again." She was surprised by the violence of her desire that he never should think of it again.

For an instant it seemed to her impossible to surrender an intimacy, which might not be the intimacy of love, but was certainly the intimacy of true friendship, to any woman in the world.
Cassandra would never understand him--she was not good enough for him.
The letter seemed to her a letter of flattery--a letter addressed to his weakness, which it made her angry to think was known to another.