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Drowse, a tiny town in the north of England, looked, indeed, so somnolent that one suspected it might have been somehow mislaid among those misty, gentle-sloped fields where it had fallen asleep forever.

a novella he had excitedly and hopefully composed, whose publication the previous year had done nothing to enhance his secure but pallid reputation.

The identical newspaper seller uttered his hollow crepuscular cry.

for we authors in exile are supposed to possess a lofty pudicity of expression

It was a glorious evening, I recall. I was not alone. Yes, a woman—but that’s a different libretto.