Great blunders are often made, like large ropes, of a multitude of fibres.

Here we stop. Upon the threshold of wedding nights stands an angel smiling, his finger on his lip.

Sorrow is a fruit. God does not make it grow on limbs too weak to bear it.

A sewer is a cynic. It tells All.

I like the laughter that opens the lips and the heart, shows at the same time the pearls and the soul.

Is it not when the fall is the lowest that charity ought to be the greatest?

The ox suffers, the cart complains.