At Sixty-three Years Of Age, Less A

My True Friends Have Always Given Me That Supreme Proof Of Devotion, A Spontaneous Aversion For The Man I Loved.

The Lovesick, The Betrayed, And The Jealous All Smell Alike.

What A Wonderful Life I've Had! I Only Wish I'd Realized It Sooner.

Among All The Modernized Aspects Of The Most Luxurious Of Industries, The Model, A Vestige Of Voluptuous Barbarianism, Is Like Some Plunder-laden Prey. She Is The Object Of Unbridled Regard, A Living Bait, The Passive Realization Of An Ideal. No Other Female Occupation Contains Such Potent Impulses To Moral Disintegration As This One, Applying As It Does The Outward Signs Of Riches To A Poor And Beautiful Girl.

Jealousy Is Not At All Low, But It Catches Us Humbled And Bowed Down, At First Sight.