To pursue truth with such astonishing lack of consideration for other people's feelings, to rend the thin veils of civilisation so wantonly, so brutally, was to her so horrible an outrage of human decency that, without replying, dazed and blinded, she bend her head as if to let her pelt f jagged hail, the drench of dirty water, bespatter her unrebuked.

All extremes are dangerous.

Fear no more, says the heart.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.

Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.

It would be a thousand pities if women wrote like men, or lived like men, or looked like men, for if two sexes are quite inadequate, considering the vastness and variety of the world, how should we manage with one only? Ought not education to bring out and fortify the differences rather than the similarities?