Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral. They have the same effect of grating incongruity as the sound of a coarse voice breaking the solemn silence of night.
The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never precisely in the way we have imagined to ourselves.
The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.
One of the tortures of jealousy is, that it can never turn its eyes away from the thing that pains it.
It is because sympathy is but a living again through our own past in a new form, that confession often prompts a response of confession.