I Tired Of The Routine Of Eight

Misery Generates Hate.

Wise People Say It Is Folly To Think Anybody Perfect; And As To Likes And Dislikes, We Should Be Friendly To All, And Worship None

I Like The Spirit Of This Great London Which I Feel Around Me. Who But A Coward Would Pass His Whole Life In Hamlets; And For Ever Abandon His Faculties To The Eating Rust Of Obscurity?

Happiness Quite Unshared Can Scarcely Be Called Happiness; It Has No Taste.

Something Of Vengeance I Had Tasted For The First Time; As Aromatic Wine It Seemed, On Swallowing, Warm And Racy: Its After-flavour, Metallic And Corroding, Gave Me A Sensation As If I Had Been Poisoned.