What does it matter if, by chance, a little vile blood be spilled?
Have there ever been more submissive slaves? Adoring, even in their irons, the God who punishes them.
How good is God! How sweet his yoke!
She wavers, she hesitates; in one word — she is a woman.
A single word often betrays a great design.
The heart that can no longer love passionately must with fury hate.