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.

Is the sea drying up? It is going up into mist and coming down on us in this water spout, the rain. It raineth every day, and the weather represents our tearful despair on a large scale.

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.

Of all our sorrows, memory is the worst.

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

Threatened men live long.

I do not allow myself vain regrets or foreboding.