If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man; some think even greater.

There was a serenity about him always that had the look of innocence, when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.

Like most uneducated Englishwomen, I like reading--I like reading books in the bulk.

Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.

Was there no safety? No learning by heart of the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life?--startling, unexpected, unknown?

I like the unreality of your mind; the whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.

How are we to account for the strange human craving for the pleasure of feeling afraid which is so much involved in our love of ghost stories?