In The Ill-judged Execution Of The Well-judged

The Social Mould Civilization Fits Us Into Have No More Relation To Our Actual Shapes Than The Conventional Shapes Of The Constellations Have To The Real Star-patterns. I Am Called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, Living A Calm Wedded Life With My Counterpart Of That Name. But I Am Not Really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, But A Woman Tossed About, All Alone, With Aberrant Passions, And Unaccountable Antipathies.

People Go On Marrying Because They Can't Resist Natural Forces, Although Many Of Them May Know Perfectly Well That They Are Possibly Buying A Month's Pleasure With A Life's Discomfort.

Indifference To Fate Which, Though It Often Makes A Villain Of A Man, Is The Basis Of His Sublimity When It Does Not.

We Colour And Mould According To The Wants Within Us Whatever Our Eyes Bring In.

To Be Loved To Madness--such Was Her Great Desire. Love Was To Her The One Cordial Which Could Drive Away The Eating Loneliness Of Her Days. And She Seemed To Long For The Abstraction Called Passionate Love More Than For Any Particular Lover.