The social mould civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, living a calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccountable antipathies.

A woman would rather visit her own grave than the place where she has been young and beautiful after she is aged and ugly.

Sometimes a woman's love of being loved gets the better of her conscience, and though she is agonized at the thought of treating a man cruelly, she encourages him to love her while she doesn't love him at all. Then, when she sees him suffering, her remorse sets in, and she does what she can to repair the wrong.

That cold accretion called the world, so terrible in the mass, is so non formidable, even pitiable, in its units.

To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature.

A strong woman who recklessly throws away her strength, she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any strength to throw away.

Women are attracted to silent men. They believe they are listening.