Otto came out upon the street muttering imprecations of a general, pointless nature

Beyond the lucent spire the sky was patched with small clouds which did not move, no more than the ragged-edged patches of snow, reflecting here that celestial course of the sun which he trod on earth.

provoked by its sedulous silence

escaping, abandoning his companions to that lugubrious assault

offered in the most piking and meretricious traffic millions of times a day

they stood there motionless as plants, Valentine in epinastic curve as the expression on his face unfolded to immediacy, and bent him down over the growth from the lower surfaces before him

Why, this . . . pelagian atmosphere of yours, you know

the pattern was so conservative, and the material so fine, that this seemed rather a mark of luxuriance than some deliberate hebetude on the part of the giver

And that it isn’t just expiation, but . . . that’s why it is crucial, because this is the only way we can know ourselves to be real, is this moral action, you understand don’t you, the only way to know others are real

The critic straightened up, unprepared for this sally, without time to recover his own walls, he withdrew instantly behind contravallations of mistrust.