From the manner in which a woman draws her thread at every stitch of her needlework, any other woman can surmise her thoughts.

Those sweetly smiling angels with pensive looks, innocent faces, and cash-boxes for hearts.

Hope is a memory that desires, the memory is a memory that has enjoyed.

Love may be the fairest gem which Society has filched from Nature; but what is motherhood save Nature in her most gladsome mood? A smile has dried my tears.

Sensuality is the death of the soul.

Only when one has learned to acknowledge that wiser minds have made better words to come out of our mouths may we truly, then, begin to speak them.

In Paris every man must have had a love affair. What woman wants something that no other woman ever wanted.