To you I am neither man nor woman. I come before you as an author only.

I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon.

I believe while I tremble; I trust while I weep.

Strange that grief should now almost choke me, because another human being's eye has failed to greet mine.

I wished critics would judge me as an author, not as a woman.

If there is one notion I hate more than another, it is that of marriage - I mean marriage in the vulgar, weak sense, as a mere matter of sentiment.

Her coming was my hope each day, Her parting was my pain; The chance that did her steps delay Was ice in every vein.