A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play.

My future will not copy my fair past, I wrote that once. And, thinking at my side my ministering life-angel justified the word by his appealing look upcast to the white throne of God.

Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?

Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.

Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.

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