The man who has no mind of his own lends it to the priests.

She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.

George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.

Heiresses are never jilted.

A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .

We are betrayed by what is false within