Our true passions are selfish.
Friendship has its illusions no less than love.
People are less self-conscious in the intimacy of family life and during the anxiety of a great sorrow. The dazzling varnish of anextreme politeness is then less in evidence, and the true qualities of the heart regain their proper proportions.
What is really beautiful must always be true.
Prudery is a kind of avarice, the worst of all.
Signs cannot be represented, in a spy's report, so damningly as words.