Oh, if I could put some of my reckless spirit into these discreet cautious lazy men!

There is no slave, after all, like a wife...Poor women, poor slaves All married women, all children and girls who live in their father's house are slaves.

Darkest of all Decembers ever has my life known, Sitting here by the embers, stunned, helpless, alone.

To think there are men who dare so defile a church, a sacred sanctuary dedicated to God. We have to hold up our skirts and walk tiptoe, so covered is the floor, the aisle and pews, with the dark shower of tobacco juice.

We are scattered, stunned; the remnant of heart left alive is filled with brotherly hate... Whose fault? Everybody blamed somebody else. Only the dead heroes left stiff and stark on the battlefield escape.

I do not write often now - not for want of something to say, but from a loathing of all I see and hear. Why dwell upon it?

Of all our sorrows, memory is the worst.