One must be poor to know the luxury of giving!

Is it not rather what we expect in men, that they should have numerous strands of experience lying side by side and never compare them with each other?

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

History, we know, is apt to repeat itself.

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.

Perhaps his might be one of the natures where a wise estimate of consequences is fused in the fires of that passionate belief which determines the consequences it believes in.

Perhaps the most delightful friendships are those in which there is much agreement, much disputation, and yet more personal liking.