A Burnt Dog Dreads The Fire.

Love Itself Draws On A Woman Nearly All The Bad Luck In The World

Too Much Detail Is Apt, Like Any Other Form Of Extravagance, To Become Slightly Vulgar.

Sometimes I Wonder Why God Ever Trusts Talent In The Hands Of Women, They Usually Make Such An Infernal Mess Of It. I Think He Must Do It As A Sort Of Ghastly Joke.

There Was Nothing But Land; Not A Country At All, But The Material Out Of Which Countries Are Made.

What If - What If Life Itself Were The Sweetheart?