In Love, What A Woman Mistakes For

A Murderer Is Less Loathsome To Us Than A Spy. The Murderer May Have Acted On A Sudden Mad Impulse; He May Be Penitent And Amend; But A Spy Is Always A Spy, Night And Day, In Bed, At Table, As He Walks Abroad; His Vileness Pervades Every Moment Of His Life

Does Anyone Know Where These Gondolas Of Paris Come From? [fr., Ne Sait On Pas Ou Viennent Ces Gondoles Parisiennes?]

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

Noble Hearts Are Neither Jealous Nor Afraid Because Jealousy Spells Doubt And Fear Spells Pettiness.

Though The Human Heart May Have To Pause For Rest When Climbing The Heights Of Affection It Rarely Stops On The Slippery Slope Of Hatred.