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.
Nothing is so hideous as an obsolete fashion.
Love is like fever; it comes and goes without the will having any part of the process.
One can acquire everything in solitude except character.
I love her beauty, but I fear her mind.
Our true passions are selfish.