In the first woman we love, we love everything. Growing older, we love the woman only.
Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.
Ah! What pleasure it must be to a woman to suffer for the one she loves!
Many of us marvel at the icy insensitivity with which women snuff out their armours. But if they did not blot out the past in this manner, life for them would lose all dignity and they could never resist the fatal familiarities to which they once submitted.
Too great a display of delicacy can and does sometimes infringe upon de-cency.
Love knows nothing of modesty.