Waiting Is Far More Difficult Than Doing.

Oh, My Margaret--my Margaret! No One Can Tell What You Are To Me! Dead--cold As You Lie There You Are The Only Woman I Ever Loved! Oh, Margaret--margaret!

Every Mile Was Redolent Of Associations, Which She Would Not Have Missed For The World, But Each Of Which Made Her Cry Upon 'the Days That Are No More' With Ineffable Longing.

Waiting Is Far More Difficult Than Doing.

In The First Place, Cranford Is In Possession Of The Amazons; All The Holders Of Houses Above A Certain Rent Are Women. If A Married Couple Come To Settle In The Town, Somehow The Gentleman Disappears; He Is Either Fairly Frightened To Death By Being The Only Man In The Cranford Parties, Or He Is Accounted For By Being With His Regiment, His Hip, Or Closely Engaged In Business All The Week In The Great Neighbouring Commercial Town Of Drumble, Distant Only Twenty Miles On A Railroad. In Short, Whatever Does Become Of The Gentlemen, They Are Not At Cranford.

The French Girls Would Tell You, To Believe That You Were Pretty Would Make You So.