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.

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

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.

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!

Truth out of season was sourer than strawberries at Christmas time.

I have a theory that no child ever does outgrow its ungratified legitimate desires; though subsequent maturity may bring him to the point where his original desire has reached such astounding proportions that the original object can no longer possibly appease it.