Do Not Do An Immoral Thing For

Silence Has Sometimes A Remarkable Power Of Showing Itself As The Disembodied Soul Of Feeling Wandering Without Its Carcase, And It Is Then More Impressive Than Speech.

You Are Joseph The Dreamer Of Dreams, Dear Jude. And A Tragic Don Quixote. And Sometimes You Are St. Stephen, Who, While They Were Stoning Him, Could See Heaven Opened. Oh, My Poor Friend And Comrade, You'll Suffer Yet!

Bless Thy Simplicity, Tess

There Are Disappointments Which Wring Us, And There Are Those Which Inflict A Wound Whose Mark We Bear To Our Graves. Such Are So Keen That No Future Gratification Of The Same Desire Can Ever Obliterate Them: They Become Registered As A Permanent Loss Of Happiness.

So Each Had A Private Little Sun For Her Soul To Bask In; Some Dream, Some Affection, Some Hobby, Or At Least Some Remote And Distant Hope.