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

We all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or some new motive is born.

If the past is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should have no law but the inclination of the moment.

I think I am quite wicked with roses. I like to gather them, and smell them till they have no scent left.

But let the wise be warned against too great readiness to explanation: it multiplies the sources of mistake, lengthening the sum for reckoners sure to go wrong.

People who live at a distance are naturally less faulty than those immediately under our own eyes.

Most of us who turn to any subject we love remember some morning or evening hour when we got on a high stool to reach down an untried volume, or sat with parted lips listening to a new talker, or for very lack of books began to listen to the voices within, as the first traceable beginning of our love.