She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

The English writer, Charles Lamb, said one day: "I hate that man." "But you don't know him." "Of course, I don't," said Lamb. "Do you think I could possibly hate a man I know?"

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.

A man may do very well with a very little knowledge, and scarce be found out in mixed company; everybody is so much more ready to produce his own, than to call for a display of your acquisitions.

Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.