Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen.

We dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep.

The sorrow that lay cold in her mother's heart... converted it into a tomb.

But, all this while, I was giving myself very unnecessary alarm. Providence had mediated better things for me than I could possibly imagine for myself.

Love, whether newly born, or aroused from a deathlike slumber, must always create sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, this it overflows upon the outward world.

I love my mother, but there has been, ever since my boyhood, a sort of coldness of intercourse between us, such as is apt to come between people of strong feelings.

Oh, for the years I have not lived, but only dreamed of living.