Hope is the virgin of the ideal world, who opens beaten to as in the midst of every tempest.

Women of forty always fancy they have found the Fountain of Youth, and that they remain young in the midst of the ruins of their day.

Hope is the virgin of the ideal world, who opens beaten to as in the midst of every tempest.

Up to forty a woman has only forty springs in her heart. After that age she has only forty winters.

Imagination, whatever may be said to the contrary, will always hold a place in history, as truth does in romance. Has not romance been penned with history in view?

Happiness is always the inaccessible castle which sinks in ruin when we set foot on it.

Always have old memories, and young hopes.