Next to trying and winning, the best thing is trying and failing.

People told her she hadn't changed much, in a tone which hinted they were surprised and a little disappointed she hadn't.

I have a little brown cocoon of an idea that may possibly expand into a magnificent moth of fulfilment.

You see," she concluded miserably, "when I can call like that to him across space--I belong to him. He doesn't love me--he never will--but I belong to him.

I'm just tired of everything…even of the echoes. There is nothing in my life but echoes…echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They're beautiful and mocking.

Isn't it terrible the way some unworthy folks are loved, while others that deserve it far more, you'd think, never get much affection?

It's all very well to read about sorrows and imagine yourself living through them heroically, but it's not so nice when you really come to have them, is it?