A French woman is a perfect architect in dress: she never, with Gothic ignorance, mixes the orders; she never tricks out a snobby Doric shape with Corinthian finery; or, to speak without metaphor, she conforms to general fashion only when it happens not to be repugnant to private beauty.

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

The folly of others is ever most ridiculous to those who are themselves most foolish.

Where wealth accumulates, men decay.

As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then, to be sure; but there's no love lost between us.

Modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues.

We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown.