Shake Me Off, Then, Sir--push Me Away;

Little Jane's Love Would Have Been My Best Reward, Without It, My Heart Is Broken.

I Shall Be Thirty-one Next Birthday. My Youth Is Gone Like A Dream; And Very Little Use Have I Ever Made Of It. What Have I Done These Last Thirty Years? Precious Little.

Life Appears To Me Too Short To Be Spent In Nursing Animosity, Or Registering Wrongs.

It Is Good To Be Attracted Out Of Ourselves, To Be Forced To Take A Near View Of The Sufferings, The Privations, The Efforts, The Difficulties Of Others.

The Writer Who Possesses The Creative Gift Owns Something Of Which He Is Not Always Master - Something That, At Times, Strangely Wills And Works For Itself.