She poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the thirst of his spirit.

Some illusions...are the shadows of great truths.

This world owes all its forward impulses to people ill at ease.

It is to the credit of human nature, that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility.

The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing; second, the gratification of one's family and friends; and lastly, the solid cash.

If truth were everywhere to be shown, a scarlet letter would blaze forth on many a bosom.

It loves more readily than it hates.