Where women love each other, men learn to smother their mutual dislike.

When we get to wishing a great deal for ourselves, whatever we get soon turns into mere limitation and exclusion.

Life is measured by the rapidity of change, the succession of influences that modify the being.

The perpetual mourner -- the grief that can never be healed -- is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning -- a new acquaintance with grief.

We judge other according to results; how else?--not knowing the process by which results are arrived at.

Men can do nothing without the make-believe of a beginning.

Conscientious people are apt to see their duty in that which is the most painful course.