Death Is A Mighty, Universal Truth.

Are You Thankful For Not Being Young?' 'yes, Sir. If I Was Young, It Would All Have To Be Gone Through Again, And The End Would Be A Weary Way Off, Don't You See?

He Was Consious Of A Thousand Odours Floating In The Air, Each One Connected With A Thousand Thoughts, And Hopes, And Joys, And Cares, Long, Long, Forgotten.

Do Not Close Your Heart Against All My Efforts To Help You.

I Have A Heart To Be Stabbed In Or Shot In, I Have No Doubt, And, Of Course, If It Ceased To Beat, I Would Cease To Be. But You Know What I Mean. I Have No Softness There, No—sympathy—sentiment—nonsense.

It May Be Only Small Injustice That The Child Can Be Exposed To; But The Child Is Small, And Its World Is Small, And Its Rocking-horse Stands As Many Hands High, According To Scale, As A Big-boned Irish Hunter.