The Pretty Lady's brains were almost entirely in her fingers.

Love was a fever that came along a few years after chicken-pox and measles and scarlet fever.

lips all crude scarlet, and eyes as absurdly big and round as a child's good-by kiss.

I wish I could have lived just one day when the world was new. I wish—I wish I could have reaped just one single, solitary, big Emotion before the world had caught it and—appraised it—and taxed it—and licensed it—and staled it!

If Beauty is excuse enough for Being, it sure takes Plainness then to feel the real necessity for—Doing.

Sorrow in the tongue will talk itself cured, if you give it a chance; but sorrow in the eyes has a wicked, wicked way now and then of leaking into the brain.

Now everybody who knows anything at all knows perfectly well that even a business letter does not deserve the paper on which it is written unless it contains at least one significant phrase that is worth waking up in the night to remember and think about.