Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

They Are Not Brave, The Days When We Are Twenty-one. They Are Full Of Little Cowardices, Little Fears Without Foundation, And One Is So Easily Bruised, So Swiftly Wounded, One Falls To The First Barbed Word. To-day, Wrapped In The Complacent Armour Of Approaching Middle Age, The Infinitesimal Pricks Of Day By Day Brush One But Lightly And Are Soon Forgotten, But Then—how A Careless Word Would Linger, Becoming A Fiery Stigma, And How A Look, A Glance Over A Shoulder, Branded Themselves As Things Eternal.

He Stole Horses' You'll Say To Yourself, 'and He Didn't Care For Women; And But For My Pride I'd Have Been With Him Now.

People Who Mattered Could Not Take The Humdrum World. But This Was Not The World, It Was Enchantment; And All Of It Was Mine.

I Have No Talent For Making New Friends, But Oh Such Genius For Fidelity To Old Ones.

Women Want Love To Be A Novel, Men A Short Story.