The Facts Of Life Are The Impossibilities

It Is No More Effort For A Man To Be A Saint Than To Be A Sinner; It Becomes A Mere Matter Of Habit.

The Less Taste A Person Has In Dress, The More Obstinate He Always Seems To Be.

Splendid Cheeses They Were, Ripe And Mellow, And With A Two Hundred Horse-power Scent About Them That Might Have Been Warranted To Carry Three Miles, And Knock A Man Over At Two Hundred Yards.

A Cat's Got Her Own Opinion Of Human Beings. She Don't Say Much, But You Can Tell Enough To Make You Anxious Not To Hear The Whole Of It.

The Odour Of Burgundy, And The Smell Of French Sauces, And The Sight Of Clean Napkins And Long Loaves, Knocked As A Very Welcome Visitor At The Door Of Our Inner Man.