When she lives at his palace, the maiden niece of a bishop can pass for a respectable woman because, if she has a love affair, she is obliged to hoodwink her uncle.
Few men are raised in our estimation by being too closely examined.
Virtue in women is perhaps a question of temperament.
Love is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.
Nothing is irredeemably ugly but sin.
During the great storms of our lives we imitate those captains who jettison their weightiest cargo.