You, Sir, Are The Most Phantom-like Of

Life Appears To Me Too Short To Be Spent In Nursing Animosity, Or Registering Wrongs.

I Thought I Loved Him When He Went Away; I Love Him Now In Another Degree: He Is More My Own. [ . . . ] Oh! A Thousand Weepers, Praying In Agony On Waiting Shores, Listened For That Voice, But It Was Not Uttered--not Uttered Till; When The Hush Came, Some Could Not Feel It: Till, When The Sun Returned, His Light Was Night To Some!

Who Has Words At The Right Moment?

Arraigned At My Own Bar, Memory Having Given Her Evidence Of The Hopes, Wishes, Sentiments I Had Been Cherishing Since Last Night-- Of The General State Of Mind Which I Have Indulged For Nearly A Fortnight Past; Reason Having Come Forward And Told In Her Own Quiet Way , A Plain, Unvarnished Tale, Showing How I Had Rejected The Real, And Rabidly Devoured The Ideal;-- I Pronounced Judgment To This Effect:-- That A Greater Fool Than Jane Eyre Had Never Breathed The Breath Of Life: That A More Fantastic Idiot Had Never Surfeited Herself On Sweet Lies, And Swallowed The Poison As If It Were Nectar.

"do You Like Him Much?" "i Told You I Liked Him A Little. Where Is The Use Of Caring For Him So Very Much: He Is Full Of Faults." "is He?" "all Boys Are." "more Than Girls?" "very Likely."