A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play.

Youth has its romance, and maturity its wisdom, as morning and spring have their freshness, noon and summer their power, night and winter their repose. Each attribute is good in its own season.

If men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed.

And with that answer, he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me down.

Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.

Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.

Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it: it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear.