The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.

Only a Woman, divine, could know all that a woman can suffer.

Money is a protection, a cloak; it can buy one quiet, and some sort of dignity.

There was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her colors still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor.

Late one brilliant April afternoon Professor Lucius Wilson stood at the head of Chestnut Street, looking about him with the pleased air of a man of taste who does not very often get to Boston.

Sometimes I wonder why God ever trusts talent in the hands of women, they usually make such an infernal mess of it. I think He must do it as a sort of ghastly joke.

I wanted to walk straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not be very far away. The light and air abot me told me that the world ended here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a little farther there would only be sun and sky, and one would float off into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making slow shadows on the grass.