... she indulged in melancholy - that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries.

A little learning is a dangerous thing, but a little patronage more so.

A contented spirit is the sweetness of existence.

I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. I returned home, loving you!

Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you but as the single, bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boyhood and my youth. Never have I from the first, and never shall I to the last, regard your part in my life, but as something sacred, never to be lightly thought of, never to be esteemed enough, never, until death, to be forgotten.

He was sailing over a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the angry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up, on every side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in the howling storm: her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast.

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one.