You don't really know a woman until she writes you a letter.

Fog and hypocrisy - that is to say, shadow, convention, decency - these were the very things that lent to London its poetry and romance.

Absurdly improbable things are quite as liable to happen in real life as in weak literature.

As a rule the person found out in a betrayal of love holds, all the same, the superior position of the two. It is the betrayed one who is humiliated.

She could carry off anything; and some people said that she did.

She suspected him of infidelity, with and without reason, morning, noon and night.

There is, of course, no joy so great as the cessation of pain; in fact all joy, active or passive, is the cessation of some pain, since it must be the satisfaction of a longing, even perhaps an unconscious longing.