The Man Of Science Is Nothing If

The Most Dire Disaster In Love Is The Death Of Imagination.

A Woman Who Is Not Quite A Fool Will Forgive Your Being But A Man, If You Are Surely That. . .

Among The Diaries Beginning With The Second Quarter Of Our Century, There Is Frequent Mention Of A Lady Then Becoming Famous For Her Beauty And Her Wit: "an Unusual Combination," In The Deliberate Syllables Of One Of The Writers, Who Is, However, Not Disposed To Personal Irony When Speaking Of Her.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

Heiresses Are Never Jilted.