Anticipation Was The Soul Of Enjoyment.

I Am The Mother That Bore You, And Your Sorrow Is My Agony; And If You Don't Hate Her, I Do' Then, Mother, You Make Me Love Her More. She Is Unjustly Treated By You, And I Must Make The Balance Even.

Blot Your Misdeeds Out (if You Are Particularly Conscientious), By A Good Deed, As Soon As You Can; Just As We Did A Correct Sum At School On The Slate, Where An Incorrect One Was Only Half Rubbed Out. It Was Better Than Wetting Our Sponge With Our Tears; Both Less Loss Of Time Where Tears Had To Be Waited For, And A Better Effect At Last.

He Could Remember All About It Now; The Pitiful Figure He Must Have Cut; The Absurd Way In Which He Had Gone And Done The Very Thing He Had So Often Agreed With Himself In Thinking Would Be The Most Foolish Thing In The World; And Had Met With Exactly The Consequences Which, In These Wise Moods, He Had Always Foretold Were Certain To Follow, If He Ever Did Make Such A Fool Of Himself.

On Some Such Night As This She Remembered Promising To Herself To Live As Brave And Noble A Life As Any Heroine She Ever Read Or Heard Of In Romance, A Life Sans Peur Et Sans Reproche; It Had Seemed To Her Then That She Had Only To Will, And Such A Life Would Be Accomplished. And Now She Had Learnt That Not Only To Will, But Also To Pray, Was A Necessary Condition In The Truly Heroic. Trusting To Herself, She Had Fallen.

He Shook Hands With Margaret. He Knew It Was The First Time Their Hands Had Met, Though She Was Perfectly Unconscious Of The Fact.