I have been loved,' she said, 'by something strange, and it has forgotten me.

Too great a sense of identity makes a man feel he can do no wrong. And too little does the same.

We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality.

One must not look inward too much, while the inside is yet tender. I do not wish to frighten myself until I can stand it.

The truth is how you say it, and to be 'one's self' is the most shocking custom of all.

The very condition of Woman is so subject to Hazard, so complex, and so grievous, that to place her at one moment is but to displace her at the next.

When autumn shadows throw their patterns across the land, they are not the images of fragile, dying leaves, not the bared arms of lofty elms, not shadows of a fading summer; but swinging shapes as of books upon a strap, of round and square boxes held under an arm, of hurrying little people heading towards the nearest school.