I recall my fleeting instants in Savannah as the taste of a cup charged to the brim.
If this was love, love had been overrated.
Experience is never limited, and it is never complete; it is an immense sensibility, a kind of huge spider-web of the finest silken threads suspended in the chamber of consciousness, and catching every air-borne particle in its tissue.
In the long run an opinion often borrows credit from the forbearance of its patrons.
There are women who are for all your 'times of life.' They're the most wonderful sort.
People can be in general pretty well trusted, of course--with the clock of their freedom ticking as loud as it seems to do here--to keep an eye on the fleeting hour.