Even the worst moments and the weariest journeys must come to an end.

Virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed.

...but in every century, and ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy.

Your mock saint who stands in a niche is not a woman if she have not suffered, still less a woman if she have not sinned. Fall at the feet of your idol as you wish, but drag her down to your level after that -- the only level she should ever reach, that of your heart.

Sink me! Your taylors have betrayed you! T'wood serve you better to send THEM to Madam Guillotine

Look at this limp cravet. And the sad state of those cuffs. I can hardly bring myself to look upon them.

There is such wonderful balm in self-imposed sacrifice.