The world, dear Agnes, is a strange affair.
Gold is the key, whatever else we try; and that sweet metal aids the conqueror in every case, in love as well as war.
I prefer a pleasant vice to an annoying virtue.
Cover that bosom that I must not see: souls are wounded by such things.
My heavens! I've been talking prose for the last forty years without knowing it.
A woman always has her revenge ready.