I, who had had my heart full for hours, took advantage of an early moment of solitude, to cry in it very bitterly. Suddenly a little hairy head thrust itself from behind my pillow into my face, rubbing its ears and nose against me in a responsive agitation, and drying the tears as they came.

Earth's crammed with Heaven.

What is genius but the power of expressing a new individuality?

When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental.

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

A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.