Many Of Her Thoughts Were Perfect Syllogisms;

Meanwhile, The Trees Were Just As Green As Before; The Birds Sang And The Sun Shone As Clearly Now As Ever. The Familiar Surroundings Had Not Darkened Because Of Her Grief, Nor Sickened Because Of Her Pain. She Might Have Seen That What Had Bowed Her Head So Profoundly -the Thought Of The World's Concern At Her Situation- Was Found On An Illusion. She Was Not An Existence, An Experience, A Passion, A Structure Of Sensations, To Anybody But Herself.

Always Wanting Another Man Than Your Own.

A Lover Without Indiscretion Is No Lover At All.

Measurement Of Life Should Be Proportioned Rather To The Intensity Of The Experience Than To Its Actual Length.

The Perfect Woman, You See [is] A Working-woman; Not An Idler; Not A Fine Lady; But One Who [uses] Her Hands And Her Head And Her Heart For The Good Of Others.