My true friends have always given me that supreme proof of devotion, a spontaneous aversion for the man I loved.

A woman who thinks she is intelligent demands the same rights as man. An intelligent woman gives up.

By an image we hold on to our lost treasures, but it is the wrenching loss that forms the image, composes, binds the bouquet.

Sincerity is not a spontaneous flower nor is modesty either.

At the top of the iron staircase leading to the stage, the good, dry, dusty warmth wraps me round like a comfortable dirty cloak.

It takes time for the absent to assume their true shape in our thoughts.

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