To have her meals, and her daily walk, and her fill of novels, and to be left alone, was all that she asked of the gods.

She was as one who, in madness, was resolute to throw herself from a precipice, but to whom some remnant of sanity remained which forced her to seek those who would save her from herself.

There is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English novel.

I think I owe my life to cork soles.

A man's own dinner is to himself so important that he cannot bring himself to believe that it is a matter utterly indifferent to anyone else.

As to happiness in this life it is hardly compatible with that diminished respect which ever attends the relinquishing of labour.

A husband is very much like a house or a horse.