To Think Is To Be Sick.

What Is A Ruin But Time Easing Itself Of Endurance?

The Night Is A Skin Pulled Over The Head Of Day That The Day May Be In Torment.

Love Becomes The Deposit Of The Heart, Analogous In All Degrees To The 'findings' In A Tomb. As In One Will Be Charted The Taken Place Of The Body, The Raiment, The Utensils Necessary To Its Other Life, So In The Heart Of The Lover Will Be Traced, As An Indelible Shadow, That Which He Loves.

None Of Us Suffers As Much As We Should, Or Loves As Much As We Say. Love Is The First Lie; Wisdom The Last.

Una's Face Was An Unbroken Block Of Calculation, Saving Where, Upon Her Upper Lip, A Little Down Of Hair Fluttered. Yet It Gave One An Uncanny Feeling. It Made One Think Of A Tassel On A Hammer.