I think what we call the dullness of things is a disease in ourselves. Else how could anyone find an intense interest in life? And many do.

A good horse makes short miles.

Her future, she thought, was likely to be worse than her past, for after her years of contented renunciation, she had slipped back into desire and longing; she found joyless days of distasteful occupation harder and harder; she found the image of the intense and varied life she yearned for, and despaired of, becoming more and more importunate.

Those bitter sorrows of childhood!-- when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

Souls live on in perpetual echoes.

There is no sorrow I have thought more about than that-to love what is great, and try to reach it, and yet to fail.

A prig is a fellow who is always making you a present of his opinions.