France lost a great novel last night.
A woman's best qualities are harmful if undiluted with prudence.
Large, heavy, ragged black clouds hung like crape hammocks beneath the starry cope of the night. You would have said that they were the cobwebs of the firmament.
Death belongs to God alone; by what right do men touch that unknown thing?
Right is right only when entire.
He left her. She was dissatisfied with him. He had preferred to incur her anger rather than cause her pain. He had kept all the pain for himself.