The hearts of women are like those little pieces of furniture with secret hiding - places, full of drawers fitted into each other; you go a lot of trouble, break your nails, and in the bottom find some withered flower, a few grains of dust - or emptiness!

After the pain of this disappointment her heart once more stood empty, and the succession of identical days began again.

But the most wretched thing, is it not-is to drag out, as I do, a useless existence. If our pains were only of some use to someone, we should find consolation in the thought of the sacrifice.

By dint of railing at idiots, one runs the risk of becoming an idiot oneself.

She would have liked not to be alive, or to be always asleep.

COLD. Healthier than heat.

Noble characters and pure affections and happy scenes are very comforting things. They're a refuge from life's disillusionments.