In general, indulgence for those we know is rarer than pity for those we know not.
Women read each other at a single glance.
The cunning tempter, by avoiding the grossness of vice, often silences objections.
That which happens to the soil when it ceases to be cultivated by the social man happens to man himself when he foolishly forsakes society for solitude; the brambles grow up in his desert heart.
There is even the dignity of vice.
What isn’t clear, isn’t French.