Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves.

Our deeds still travel with us from afar, and what we have been makes us what we are.

It so often happens that others are measuring us by our past self while we are looking back on that self with a mixture of disgust and sorrow.

And when a woman's will is as strong as the man's who wants to govern her, half her strength must be concealment.

He was at a starting point which makes many a man's career a fine subject for betting, if there were any gentlemen given to that amusement who could appreciate the complicated probabilities of an arduous purpose. . . .

There are natures in which, if they love us, we are conscious of having a sort of baptism and consecration.

Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.