...she moved about in a mental cloud of many-coloured idealities, which eclipsed all sinister contingencies by its brightness.

Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die.

I am the family face; flesh perishes, I live on, projecting trait and trace through time to times anon, and leaping from place to place over oblivion.

You are Joseph the dreamer of dreams, dear Jude. And a tragic Don Quixote. And sometimes you are St. Stephen, who, while they were stoning him, could see Heaven opened. Oh, my poor friend and comrade, you'll suffer yet!

So do flux and reflux--the rhythm of change--alternate and persist in everything under the sky.

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.

Where we are would be Paradise to me, if you would only make it so.