The difference breeds hatred.
The ordinary procedure of the nineteenth century is that when a powerful and noble personage encounters a man of feeling, he kills, exiles, imprisons or so humiliates him that the other, like a fool, dies of grief.
I see but one rule: to be clear. If I am not clear, all my world crumbles to nothing.
Spring appears and we are once more children.
Friendship has its illusions no less than love.
It is with blows dealt by public contempt that a husband kills his wife in the nineteenth century; it is by shutting the doors ofall the drawing-rooms in her face.