Love, according to our contemporary poets, is a privilege which two beings confer upon one another, whereby they may mutually cause one another much sorrow over absolutely nothing.

Girls are apt to imagine noble and enchanting and totally imaginary figures in their own minds; they have fanciful extravagant ideas about men, and sentiment, and life; and then they innocently endow somebody or other with all the perfections for their daydreams, and put their trust in him.

I believe in the incomprehensibility of God.

There is nothing original; all is reflected light.

How can we explain the perpetuity of envy--a vice which yields no return?

He's got his dog trained so that it only does it on newspapers. The trouble is it does it when he's reading the blasted things.

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