I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?

Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.

We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.

I gave up before birth.