And yet to every bad there is a worse.

Women accept their destiny more readily than men.

To be loved to madness--such was her great desire. Love was to her the one cordial which could drive away the eating loneliness of her days. And she seemed to long for the abstraction called passionate love more than for any particular lover.

A blaze of love and extinction, was better than a lantern glimmer of the same which should last long years.

Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down you'd treat if met where any bar is, or help to half-a-crown.

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.

It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.