Some Folk Want Their Luck Buttered.

Thoroughly Convinced Of The Impossibility Of His Own Suit, A High Resolve Constrained Him Not To Injure That Of Another. This Is A Lover's Most Stoical Virtue, As The Lack Of It Is A Lover's Most Venial Sin.

It Is Difficult For A Woman To Define Her Feelings In Language Which Is Chiefly Made By Men To Express Theirs.

Her Affection For Him Was Now The Breath And Life Of Tess's Being; It Enveloped Her As A Photosphere, Irradiated Her Into Forgetfulness Of Her Past Sorrows, Keeping Back The Gloomy Spectres That Would Persist In Their Attempts To Touch Her—doubt, Fear, Moodiness, Care, Shame. She Knew That They Were Waiting Like Wolves Just Outside The Circumscribing Light, But She Had Long Spells Of Power To Keep Them In Hungry Subjection There.

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.

George's Son Had Done His Work So Thoroughly That He Was Considered Too Good A Workman To Live, And Was, In Fact, Taken And Tragically Shot At Twelve O'clock That Same Day—another Instance Of The Untoward Fate Which So Often Attends Dogs And Other Philosophers Who Follow Out A Train Of Reasoning To Its Logical Conclusion, And Attempt Perfectly Consistent Conduct In A World Made Up So Largely Of Compromise.