Back in the city's littered bivouac he walked among the tenements of home like an awol private returning to barracks from which his old outfit had long ago convoyed and scattered for keeps.

They used to give me cinnamon when I had a cold—quite useless, but not disagreeable. […] On the label was a list of its virtues, and among other things it was described as being in the highest degree carminative. I adored the word.

The demand to be loved is the greatest of all arrogant presumptions.

There was a catch in his voice when he spoke his father's name.