But nothing is more insidious than the evolution of wishes from mere fancies, and of wants from mere wishes.

We colour and mould according to the wants within us whatever our eyes bring in.

There are disappointments which wring us, and there are those which inflict a wound whose mark we bear to our graves. Such are so keen that no future gratification of the same desire can ever obliterate them: they become registered as a permanent loss of happiness.

There was now a distinct manifestation of morning in the air, and presently the bleared white visage of a sunless winter day emerged like a dead-born child.

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

He wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. So he remained silent.

Sometimes I shrink from your knowing what I have felt for you, and sometimes I am distressed that all of it you will never know.