A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.

Books, books, books! I had found the secret of a garret room Piled high with cases in my father’s name; Piled high, packed large,--where, creeping in and out Among the giant fossils of my past, Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there At this or that box, pulling through the gap, In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, The first book first. And how I felt it beat Under my pillow, in the morning’s dark, An hour before the sun would let me read! My books!

You're something between a dream and a miracle.

He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

Thou large-brain'd woman and large-hearted man.