Reader, I married him.
Tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.
I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost.
Your will shall decide your destiny.
Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing.
In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life—November seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth and home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.