A human life, I think, should be well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of tender kinship for the face of earth, for the labors men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar, unmistakable difference amidst the future widening of knowledge.

Falsehood is easy, truth so difficult.

Under every guilty secret there is hidden a brood of guilty wishes, whose unwholesome infecting life is cherished by the darkness.

The rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable families.

Adventure is not outside man; it is within.

Her own misery filled her heart—there was no room in it for other people's sorrow.

Awful Night! Ancestral mystery of mysteries.