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

Passionate love, I take it, rarely lasts long, and is very troublesome while it does last. Mutual esteem is very much more valuable.

This at least should be a rule through the letter-writing world: that no angry letter be posted till four-and-twenty hours will have elapsed since it was written.

I think I owe my life to cork soles.

I am not fit to marry. I am often cross, and I like my own way, and I have a distaste for men.

Poverty, to be picturesque, should be rural. Suburban misery is as hideous as it is pitiable.

As to that leisure evening of life, I must say that I do not want it. I can conceive of no contentment of which toil is not to be the immediate parent.