The spring without a leaf to toss, bare and bright like a virgin fierce in her chastity, scornful in her purity, was laid out on fields wide-eyed and watchful and entirely careless of what was done or thought by the beholders.

It was strange to think that all the great women of fiction were, until Jane Austen's day, not only seen by the other sex, but seen only in relation to the other sex. And how small a part of woman's life is that.

The world was going on as usual. All the time she was writing the world had continued.

To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.

I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.

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

Long ago I realized that no other person would be to me what you are.