For what is love itself, for the one we love best? – an enfolding of immeasurable cares which yet are better than any joys outside our love.
Excellence encourages one about life generally; it shows the spiritual wealth of the world.
Every woman is supposed to have the same set of motives, or else to be a monster.
Children demand that their heroes should be fleckless, and easily believe them so.
But human experience is usually paradoxical, if that means incongruous with the phrases of current talk or even current philosophy.
And when a woman’s will is as strong as the man’s who wants to govern her, half her strength must be concealment.
And the intensest form of hatred is that rooted in fear.
All meanings, we know, depend on the key of interpretation.
A woman’s heart must be of such a size and no larger, else it must be pressed small, like Chinese feet; her happiness is to be made as cakes are, by a fixed recipe.
A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections.
A blush is no language: only a dubious flag-signal which may mean either of two contradictories.
