When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

How lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world.

The immense success of our life is, I think, that our treasure is hid away; or rather in such common things that nothing can touch it.

A veil of insanity everywhere: Oh why I was born in this age? It is a terrible age.

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?

One of the signs of passing youth is the birth of a sense of fellowship with other human beings as we take our place among them.

Submit to me." So she said nothing, but looked doggedly and sadly at the shore, wrapped in its mantle of peace; as if the people there had fallen alseep, she thought; were free like smoke, were free to come and go like ghosts. They have no suffering there, she thought.