To her, the name of father was another name for love.
Every father knows at once too much and too little about his own son.
How strong sometimes is weakness!
Nowhere more than in New York does the contest between squalor and splendor so sharply present itself.
When a literary person's exhaustive work is over, the last thing he wishes to do is to talk books.
Our domestic Napoleons, too many of them, give flattery, bonnets and bracelets to women, and everything else but - justice.