John Locke: 45 books

HAVE you dined at Ranelagh lately?” asked Norma Hardacre. “I have never been there in my life,” replied Jimmie Padgate. “In fact,” he added simply, “I am not quite sure whether I know where it is.” “Yours is the happier state. It is one of the dullest spots in a dull world.” “Then...

It was a severe room, scrupulously neat. Along one side ran a bookcase, with beaded glass doors, containing, as one might see by peering through the spaces, the collected, unread literature of two stern generations. A few old prints, placed in bad lights, hung on the walls. In the centre of the room...

Felicia Graves was puzzled. The six weeks she had spent at the Pension Boccard had confused many of her conception’s and brought things before her judgment for which her standards were inadequate. Not that a girl who had passed the few years of her young womanhood in the bubbling life of a garrison...