It Is Not Poverty So Much As

I Consider A Story Merely As A Frame On Which To Stretch My Materials.

There Is A Sacredness In Tears. They Are Not The Mark Of Weakness, But Of Power.

There Are Certain Half-dreaming Moods Of Mind In Which We Naturally Steal Away From Noise And Glare, And Seek Some Quiet Haunt Where We May Indulge Our Reveries And Build Our Air Castles Undisturbed.

Nothing Impresses The Mind With A Deeper Feeling Of Loneliness Than To Tread The Silent And Deserted Scene Of Former Throng And Pageant.

A Woman's Whole Life Is A History Of The Affections. The Heart Is Her World: It Is There Her Ambition Strives For Empire; It Is There Her Avarice Seeks For Hidden Treasures. She Sends Forth Her Sympathies On Adventure; She Embarks Her Whole Soul On The Traffic Of Affection; And If Shipwrecked, Her Case Is Hopeless — For It Is A Bankruptcy Of The Heart.