And Yet To Every Bad There Is

I Am The Family Face; Flesh Perishes, I Live On.

Of Love It May Be Said, The Less Earthly The Less Demonstrative. In Its Absolutely Indestructible Form It Reaches A Profundity In Which All Exhibition Of Itself Is Painful.

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.

Well, These Sad And Hopeless Obstacles Are Welcome In One Sense, For They Enable Us To Look With Indifference Upon The Cruel Satires That Fate Loves To Indulge In.

A Strong Woman Who Recklessly Throws Away Her Strength, She Is Worse Than A Weak Woman Who Has Never Had Any Strength To Throw Away.