It In Every Fair Face, Every Fair

We Are Like Travellers Using The Cinders Of A Volcano To Roast Their Eggs. Whilst We See That It Always Stands Ready To Clothe What We Would Say, We Cannot Avoid The Question Whether The Characters Are Not Significant Of Themselves.

Literature Is Eavesdropping.

I'm Happier. I Guess I Made Up My Mind To Be That Way.

Truth Gathers Itself Spotless And Unhurt After All Our Surrenders And Concealments And Partisanship; Never Hurt By The Treachery Or Ruin Of Its Best Defenders, Whether Luther, Or William Penn, Or St. Paul.

There Was Never A Child So Lovely But His Mother Was Glad To Get Him To Sleep.