I Am Not Romantic, You Know; I

For What Do We Live, But To Make Sport For Our Neighbors And Laugh At Them In Our Turn?

Is Not Poetry The Food Of Love?

He Could Not Forgive Her, But He Could Not Be Unfeeling. Though Condemning Her For The Past, And Considering It With High And Unjust Resentment, Though Perfectly Careless Of Her, And Though Becoming Attached To Another, Still He Could Not See Her Suffer, Without The Desire Of Giving Her Relief. It Was A Remainder Of Former Sentiment; It Was An Impulse Of Pure, Though Unacknowledged Friendship; It Was A Proof Of His Own Warm And Amiable Heart.

My Style Of Writing Is Very Diffrent From Yours.

Let Us Have No Ranting Tragedies. Too Many Charactersnot A Tolerable Woman's Part In The Play.