A Bloody Good Thing, But

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.

My Importance To The World Is Relatively Small. On The Other Hand, My Importance To Myself Is Tremendous. I Am All I Have To Work With, To Play With, To Suffer And To Enjoy. It Is Not The Eyes Of Others That I Am Wary Of, But Of My Own. I Do Not Intend To Let Myself Down More Than I Can Possibly Help, And I Find That The Fewer Illusions I Have About Myself Or The World Around Me, The Better Company I Am For Myself.

I Have Always Been Very Fond Of Them (drama Critics) . . . I Think It Is So Frightfully Clever Of Them To Go Night After Night To The Theatre And Know So Little About It.

Mona Lisa Looks As If She Has Just Been Sick, Or Is About To Be.

Bed Is The Perfect Climate.