Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?
The future of a nation lies in the hands of mothers.
Good befalls us while we sleep, sometimes.
The smallest flower is a thought, a life answering to some feature of the Great Whole, of whom they have a persistent intuition.
Nothing is a greater impediment to being on good terms with others than being ill at ease with yourself.
What patient can trust the knowledge of a physician without reputation or furniture, in a period when publicity is all-powerful and when the government gilds the lamp posts on the Place de la Concorde in order to dazzle the poor?