I’m at the age now, when I meet a woman sixty years old, she’s too young for me.

"She was "a woman of uncertain age.

And in truth, of course, I'm not just 60 - I'm twelve, I'm 23, I'm 37, I'm 42, I'm 18. I'm every age I've ever been. Depending on what day of the week it is and what the situation calls for at the moment.

She doesn't look a day over fifty. (p. 24)

Recently, I turned 60... and even more recently, I turned 62. That was a bastard, I don't even remember the 61.

If she had been left alone she would have gone on, in her own way, enjoying herself thoroughly, until people found one day that she had turned imperceptibly into one of those women who have become old without ever having been middle aged: a little withered, a little acid, hard as nails, sentimentally kindhearted, and addicted to religion or small dogs.

Fifty years ago I seemed to myself older than other people assumed me to be; now I seem younger.

“Old age,” she said, “is slower than a grenade, but a lot more thorough.”

But I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.

I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now.

From the back pages

Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.

"She has a nice ladylike appearance, but when she takes her bonnet off she looks seventy years old.” “She ought to keep it off, then,” returned Francesca, “ for she looked eighty with it on.

She isn’t old and cranky. She’s just cranky.

"How old are you? I asked her.
"Old enough to know better." she said."