A man who pretends to understand women is bad manners. For him to really to understand them is bad morals.

A solitary maple on a woodside flames in single scarlet, recalls nothing so much as the daughter of a noble house dressed for a fancy ball, with the whole family gathered around to admire her before she goes.

..her smile, which was her pretty feature, was never so pretty as when her sprightly phrase had a scratch lurking in it.

...and the great advantage of being a literary woman, was that you could go everywhere and do everything.

Art is nothing more than the shadow of humanity.

Writing is not primarily escape, but use.

In art economy is always beauty.