автордың кітабынан сөз тіркестері  The Inheritors

Joseph Conrad, Ford M. Ford

“Oh, I see,” he answered. I don’t know what he saw. For myself, I saw nothing.

“This is all Greek to me,” I muttered rebelliously.

My bewilderment was infinite, but it stopped short of being unpleasant.

I felt as a new boy in a new school feels on his first introduction to his fellows.

To understand life one must live—and I had only brooded.

“It suits me,” she answered—“I want to be placed, you see.”

I was somebody, confound it, I was somebody.

He—spoke—very—slowly—and—very —authoritatively, like a great actor whose aim is to hold the stage as long as possible.

She was probably a member of some clique that called themselves Fourth Dimensionists—just as there had been pre-Raphaelites.

They were to come like snow in the night: in the morning one would look out and find the world white; they were to come as the gray hairs come, to sap the strength of us as the years sap the strength of the muscles.