She had one of those charming faces which, according to the angle from which you see them, look either melancholy or impertinent. Her eyes were grey; her trick of narrowing them made her seem to reflect, the greater part of the time, in the dusk of her second thoughts. With that mood, that touch of arriere pensee, went an uncertain, speaking set of lips.

There is no end to the violations committed by children on children, quietly talking alone.

Dogs are a habit, I think.

Habit, of which passion must be wary, may all the same be the sweetest part of love.

Forgiveness should be an act, but this is a state with him.

Writers do not find subjects; subjects find them.

Pity the selfishness of lovers: it is brief, a forlorn hope; it is impossible.