Tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.

Reader, I married him.

as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.

If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed.

My sister Emily loved the moors. Flowers brighter than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for her; out of a sullen hollow in a livid hillside her mind could make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude many and dear delights; and not the least and best-loved was – liberty.

Oh, I am not going to die, am I? He will not separate us, we have been so happy.

Life is still life, whatever its pangs; our eyes and ears and their use remain with us, though the prospect of what pleases be wholly withdrawn, and the sound of what consoles must be silenced.