When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
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