There is the strange power we have of changing facts by the force of the imagination.
Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.
Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape, and another tongue.
But how entirely I live in my imagination; how completely depend upon spurts of thought, coming as I walk, as I sit; things churning up in my mind and so making a perpetual pageant, which is to be my happiness.