I suppose it's my soul.' 'The truly healthy man doesn't know he has a soul.

What business have you with luxuries of that kind ?' 'It came of itself.

Who's the man that says that we're all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding ?' 'He's right, whoever he is,--except about the misunderstanding.

I don't think we could misunderstand each other.' The blue smoke curled back from the ceiling in clouds.

Then Torpenhow, insinuatingly--'Dick, is it a woman ?' 'Be hanged if it's anything remotely resembling a woman; and if you begin to talk like that, I'll hire a red-brick studio with white paint trimmings, and begonias and petunias and blue Hungarias to play among three-and-sixpenny pot-palms, and I'll mount all my pics in aniline-dye plush plasters, and I'll invite every woman who maunders over what her guide-books tell her is Art, and you shall receive 'em, Torp,--in a snuff-brown velvet coat with yellow trousers and an orange tie.