Life, The Permission To Know Death.

And Must I, Perchance, Like Careful Writers, Guard Myself Against The Conclusions Of My Readers?

Una's Face Was An Unbroken Block Of Calculation, Saving Where, Upon Her Upper Lip, A Little Down Of Hair Fluttered. Yet It Gave One An Uncanny Feeling. It Made One Think Of A Tassel On A Hammer.

To Love Without Criticism Is To Be Betrayed.

To Think Is To Be Sick.

We Are Beginning To Wonder Whether A Servant Girl Hasn't The Best Of It After All. She Knows How The Salad Tastes Without The Dressing, And She Knows How Life's Lived Before It Gets To The Parlor Door.