Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Things could always be worse; for instance, you could be ugly and work in the Post Office.

I spent my Saturday nights in New York, because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faith and incessant, from this garden, and the cars going up and own his drive, One night I did hear a material car there, and was it’s lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over.

Summer and love and beauty are much the same in Cannes or Connecticut.