I have been longing to meet him for years." She may have bought my book on the day of publication, and be reading it through for the second time.

She may, by pure accident, have left it on her favourite seat beneath the window.

The knowledge that insincerity is our universal garment has reduced all compliment to meaningless formula.
A lady one evening at a party drew me aside.

The chief guest--a famous writer--had just arrived.
"Tell me," she said, "I have so little time for reading, what has he done ?" I was on the point of replying when an inveterate wag, who had overheard her, interposed between us.
"'The Cloister and the Hearth,'" he told her, "and 'Adam Bede.'" He happened to know the lady well.

She has a good heart, but was ever muddle-headed.