Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!

I hate the man who eats without knowing what he’s eating. I doubt his taste in more important things.

Since all the maids are good and lovable, from whence come the bad wives?

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

How sickness enlarges the dimension of a man’s self to himself!

Much depends upon when and where you read a book. In the five or six impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the Faerie Queen for a stopgap, or a volume of Bishop Andrews's Sermons?

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