Her own misery filled her heart—there was no room in it for other people's sorrow.
Our thoughts are often worse than we are.
There are new eras in one's life that are equivalent to youth-are something better than youth.
To an old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on the deep.
Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending.
Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement.