The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling, is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in her presence.

We have all our secret sins; and if we knew ourselves we should not judge each other harshly.

... when one's outward lot is perfect, the sense of inward imperfection is the more pressing.

How lovely the little river is, with its dark changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank, and listen to its low, placid voice.

Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation.

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it.

Childhood is only the beautiful and happy time in contemplation and retrospect: to the child it is full of deep sorrows, the meaning of which is unknown.