I have sometimes thought I would put down in writing the stories that she told me, but they would be sad reading.

The majority of them, I fear, would show only the tangled, seamy side of human nature, and God knows there is little need for us to point that out to each other, though so many nowadays seem to think it the only work worth doing.

A few of them were sweet, but I think they were the saddest; and over one or two a man might laugh, but it would not be a pleasant laugh.
"I never enter the door of a house to which I have been summoned," she said to me one evening, "without wondering, as I step over the threshold, what the story is going to be.

I always feel inside a sick-room as if I were behind the scenes of life.

The people come and go about you, and you listen to them talking and laughing, and you look into your patient's eyes, and you just know that it's all a play." The incident that Jephson's remark had reminded me of, she told me one afternoon, as I sat propped up by the fire, trying to drink a glass of port wine, and feeling somewhat depressed at discovering I did not like it.
"One of my first cases," she said, "was a surgical operation.