I am not an angel," I asserted; "and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself.

But afterwards, is there nothing more for me in life - no true home - nothing to be dearer to me than myself?

Presentiments are strange things: and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key.

Adversity is a good school.

The writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master - something that, at times, strangely wills and works for itself.

To the dear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break... I am ever tender and true.

Jane, I never meant to wound you thus...Will you ever forgive me?" Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot.