The fact is that love is of two kinds, one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the one gives rise is not the passion of the other.
Old maids, having never bent their temper or their lives to other lives and other tempers, as woman’s destiny requires, have for the most part a mania for making everything about them bend to them.
Coffee falls into the stomach. Ideas begin to move, things remembered arrive at full gallop. the shafts of wit start up like sharp-shooters, similes arise, the paper is covered with ink.
