She Was But A Transient Impression, Half

I Am The Family Face; Flesh Perishes, I Live On, Projecting Trait And Trace Through Time To Times Anon, And Leaping From Place To Place Over Oblivion.

Is A Woman A Thinking Unit At All, Or A Fraction Always Wanting Its Integer?

She Was But A Transient Impression, Half Forgotten.

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.

War Makes Good History But Peace Is Poor Reading.