I have written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb.

Ah, happiness courts the light so we deem the world is gay. But misery hides aloof so we deem that misery there is none.

All the world over, the picturesque yields to the pocketesque.

That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man.

In their precise tracings-out and subtle causations, the strongest and fieriest emotions of life defy all analytical insight.

True places are not found on maps.

A beautiful woman is born Queen of men and women both, as Mary Stuart was born Queen of Scots, whether men or women.