It is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.

Because if a woman's heart was free a man might have hope.

She was young and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of death.

Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer--both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams.

It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from our sight.

Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on?

The blood is the life!