Nobody will use other people's experience, nor have any of his own till it is too late to use it.

There is an alchemy of quiet malice by which women can concoct a subtle poison from ordinary trifles.

It is very singular how the fact of a man's death often seems to give people a truer idea of his character, whether for good or evil, than they have ever possessed while he was living and acting among them.

Death was too definite an object to be wished for or avoided.

Nobody will use other people's experience, nor have any of his own till it is too late to use it.

She wanted—what some people want throughout life—a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capable of sympathy.

Or-but this more rarely happened-she would be convulsed with a rage of grief, and sob out her love for her mother, in broken words, and seem intent on proving that she had a heart, by breaking it.