A Woman's Chastity Consists, Like An Onion,

Man's Own Youth Is The World's Youth; At Least He Feels As If It Were, And Imagines That The Earth's Granite Substance Is Something Not Yet Hardened, And Which He Can Mould Into Whatever Shape He Likes.

A Pure Hand Needs No Glove To Cover It.

The Thing You Set Your Mind On Is The Thing You Ultimately Become.

Death Possesses A Good Deal, Of Real Estate, Namely, The Graveyard In Every Town.

Masculine Observers, If The Birth-mark Did Not Heighten Their Admiration, Contented Themselves With Wishing It Away, That The World Might Possess One Living Specimen Of Ideal Loveliness, Without The Semblance Of A Flaw.