Some years ago there was in the city of York a society of magicians. They met upon the third Wednesday of every month and read each other long, dull papers upon the history of English magic.

Lovers are rarely the most rational beings in creation.

It has been remarked (by a lady infinitely cleverer than the present author) how kindly disposed the world in general feels to young people who either die or marry.

Time and I have quarrelled. All hours are midnight now. I had a clock and a watch, but I destroyed them both. I could not bear the way they mocked me.

He hardly ever spoke of magic, and when he did it was like a history lesson and no one could bear to listen to him.

He gave her his heart. She took it and placed it quietly in the pocket of her gown. No one observed what she did.

Magic, madam, is like wine and, if you are not used to it, it will make you drunk.