“Good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels can read.”

It is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.

These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall. But the God created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow.

Love is, after all, a selfish thing; and it throws a black shadow on anything between which and the light it stands.

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere.

She has man’s brain–a brain that a man should have were he much gifted–and woman’s heart. The good God fashioned her for a purpose, believe me when He made that so good combination.

There are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely.

The inscrutable laws of sex have so arranged that even a timid woman is not afraid of a fierce and haughty man.

No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be.

There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may solve only in part.

It is something like the way dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that which it would otherwise harm by contact.

My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side.

There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration.

A personal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea.

Enter freely and of your own free will!

For now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately must help sooth me.

I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.