Novels are sweets. All people with healthy literary appetites love them-almost all women; a vast number of clever, hardheaded men.

Life is the soul's nursery.

Who has not seen how women bully women? What tortures have men to endure compared to those daily repeated shafts of scorn and cruelty with which poor women are riddled by the tyrants of their sex?

It is a friendly heart that has plenty of friends.

When you look at me, when you think of me, I am in paradise.

What a charming reconciler and peacemaker money is!

To be rich, to be famous? do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hidden away under ground, along with the idle titles engraven on your coffin? But only true love lives after you, follows your memory with secret blessings or pervades you, and intercedes for you. Non omnis moriar, if, dying, I yet live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless, living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me.