Patience and endurance were not virtues in a woman; they were necessities, forced on her. Perhaps some day things would change and women would renounce them. They would rise up and say: 'We are not patient. We will endure no more.' Then what would happen to the world?

There is nothing for the modern man or woman to fear about most cases of cancer. Nothing except delay.

People that trust themselves a dozen miles from the city, in strange houses, with servants they don't know, needn't be surprised if they wake up some morning and find their throats cut.

Politics is still the man's game. The women are allowed to do the chores, the dirty work, and now and then--but only occasionally--one is present at some secret conference or other. But it's not the rule. They can go out and get the vote, if they can and will; they can collect money, they can be grateful for being permitted to work. But that is all.

Conflict is the very essence of life.

Every writer knows the terror of an unexpected success. How to carry on? How to repeat it?

having considerable mind, changing it became almost as ponderous an operation as moving a barn, although not nearly so stable.