She could no longer borrow from the future to ease her present grief.
Not yet hardened, many young die good.
Our most intimate friend is not he to whom we show the worst, but the best of our nature.
The sorrow that lay cold in her mother's heart... converted it into a tomb.
In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the lights, the music, and the revelry above may cause us to forget their existence.
He whose genius appears deepest and truest excels his fellows in nothing save the knack of expression; he throws out occasionally a lucky hint at truths of which every human soul is profoundly though unutterably conscious.