In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.

The light that lies In woman's eyes.

I hate a man who swallows [his food], affecting not to know what he is eating. I suspect his taste in higher matters.

A garden was the primitive prison, till man with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it.

Think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!

This very night I am going to leave off tobacco! Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised.

Don't introduce me to that man! I want to go on hating him, and I can't hate a man whom I know.