As to honor - you know - it's a very fine mediaeval inheritance which women never got hold of. It wasn't theirs.

We live as we dream - alone. While the dream disappears, the life continues painfully.

She feared the unknown as we all do, and her ignorance made the unknown infinitely vast.

There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies.

Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please.

Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion.

Madness alone is truly terrifying, inasmuch as you cannot placate it by threats, persuasion, or bribes.