Buonaparte is certainly writing, or rather dictating, his memoirs. He walks backwards and forwards with his hands behind him, and dictates so fast that two or three of his suite are obliged to be in attendance, that the one may take down one-half of a sentence, and another the rest; they then literally compare notes, and put the disjointed legs and wings and heads of periods together. This is writing a book as he fought a battle.

... they know little of the passions who seek to argue with that most intractable of them all, the fear that is born of love.

She was the prettiest, silliest, most affected, husband-hunting butterfly ever.

Buonaparte is certainly writing, or rather dictating, his memoirs. He walks backwards and forwards with his hands behind him, and dictates so fast that two or three of his suite are obliged to be in attendance, that the one may take down one-half of a sentence, and another the rest; they then literally compare notes, and put the disjointed legs and wings and heads of periods together. This is writing a book as he fought a battle.

That bad letters of every kind arise from want of the habit of thinking, I cannot doubt.

I prepare myself for all disappointments by expecting nothing.

Fashion is a capricious deity.