One applauds the industry of professional philanthropy. But it has its dangers. After a while the private heart begins to harden. We fling letters into the wastebasket, are abrupt to telephoned solicitations. Charity withers in the incessant gale.

The Enemy, who wears her mother's usual face and confidential tone, has access; doubtless stares into her writing case and listens on the phone.

Children from ten to twenty don't want to be understood. Their whole ambition is to feel strange and alien and misinterpreted so that they can live austerely in some stone tower of adolescence, their privacies unviolated.

Compromise, if not the spice of life, is its solidity. It is what makes nations great and marriages happy

Say what you will, making a marriage work is a woman's business.

Scratch any father, you find / Someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors, / Believing change is a threat.

Wherever conversation's flowing, / Why must I feel it falls on me / To keep things going?