January, month of empty pockets! let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.

So now, whenever I despair, I no longer expect my end, but some bit of luck, some commonplace little miracle which, like a glittering link, will mend again the necklace of my days.

We only do well the things we like doing.

The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike.

A pretty little collection of weaknesses and a terror of spiders are our indispensable stock-in-trade with the men...

The faults of husbands are often caused by the excess virtues of their wives.

I want nothing from love, in short, but love.