One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions.

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves young Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?

It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?

It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on thethings that I might have avoided.

For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone.

Reformers who are obsessed with purity and cannot see that their obsession is impure.

You do care a little for me, I know... but nothing to speak of, and you don't love me. I was yours once till death if you'd cared to keep me, but I'm someone else's now... and he's mine in a way that shocks you, but why don't you stop being shocked, and attend to your own happiness.