She was able to feel active creation going on around her in the rocks and hills, where the mystery of lust took place; and in herself, where all was yet only the night of senses and wild dreams, the work of passion going on.
A woman is a hunter without a forest.
Venus can see at night without eyes.
Strange is the influence of Marx on character.
I don't know what imagination is, if not an unpruned, tangled kind of memory.
Socialist writers are made of sterner stuff than those who only let their characters steeplechase through trouble in order to comeout first in the happy ending of moral uplift.