Sensuality Is The Death Of The Soul.

A Sacrament By Virtue Of Which Each Imparts Nothing But Vexations To The Other.

A Flow Of Words Is A Sure Sign Of Duplicity.

Chance, My Dear, Is The Sovereign Deity In Child-bearing.

In Paris Every Man Must Have Had A Love Affair. What Woman Wants Something That No Other Woman Ever Wanted.

If We Could But Paint With The Hand What We See With The Eye.