Life Is A Succession Of Readjustments.

She Had One Of Those Charming Faces Which, According To The Angle From Which You See Them, Look Either Melancholy Or Impertinent. Her Eyes Were Grey; Her Trick Of Narrowing Them Made Her Seem To Reflect, The Greater Part Of The Time, In The Dusk Of Her Second Thoughts. With That Mood, That Touch Of Arriere Pensee, Went An Uncertain, Speaking Set Of Lips.

I Do Like Italian Graves; They Look So Much More Lived In.

The Passion Of Vanity Has Its Own Depths In The Spirit, And Is Powerfully Militant.

No, It Is Not Only Our Fate But Our Business To Lose Innocence, And Once We Have Lost That, It Is Futile To Attempt A Picnic In Eden.

Illusions Are Art, For The Feeling Person, And It Is By Art That We Live, If We Do.