There are men so situated in life that they can never enter the brilliant sphere in which honest women move, whether for want of a coat, or from their bashfulness, or from the failure of a mahout to introduce them.
There are certain wives whose confinement makes sarcastic celibates smile.
The words fell as the axe of a skilful woodman falls at the root of a young tree and brings it down at a single blow.
The woman who is happy in her affections does not go much into the world.
The woman who allows herself to be found out deserves her fate.
The wife of a banker is always an honest woman, but the woman who sits at the cashier’s desk cannot be one, unless her husband has a very large business and she does not live over his shop.
The virtues we acquire, which develop slowly within us, are the invisible links that bind each one of our existences to the others,—existences which the spirit alone remembers, for Matter has no memory for spiritual things.
The virtue of women is perhaps a question of temperament.
The sweetest of all consolations to suffering souls, to martyrs, to artists, in the worst of that divine agony which hatred and envy force upon them, is to meet with praise where they have hitherto found censure and injustice.
The Spirit of Love has acquired strength, the result of all vanquished terrestrial passions.
The sick man himself had wasted greatly. All the life in him seemed to have taken refuge in the still brilliant eyes.
The secret of a great success for which you are at a loss to account is a crime that has never been found out, because it was properly executed.[Also known as: Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.]
