The people were all kind.

She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”

It was dim and quiet, and there were other people praying.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked⁠—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.

Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly.