[Some] people really expect the passion of love to fill and gratify every need of life, whereas nature only intended that it should meet one of many demands. They insist on making it stand for all the emotional pleasures of life and art; expecting an individual and self-limited passion to yield infinite variety, pleasure, and distraction, and to contribute to their lives what the arts and the pleasurable exercise of the intellect gives to less limited and less intense idealists.

The end is nothing; the road is all.

The summer moon hung full in the sky. For the time being it was the great fact of the world.

All Southern women wished of their menfolk was simply to be 'like Paris handsome and like Hector brave'.

In a few hours one could cover that incalculable distance; from the winter country and homely neighbours, to the city where the air trembled like a tuning-fork with unimaginable possibilities.

Every fine story must leave in the mind of the sensitive reader an intangible residuum of pleasure, a cadence, a quality of voice that is exclusively the writer's own, individual, unique.

Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness.