Love Is A Game In Which One

Conviction Brings A Silent, Indefinable Beauty Into Faces Made Of The Commonest Human Clay; The Devout Worshiper At Any Shrine Reflects Something Of Its Golden Glow, Even As The Glory Of A Noble Love Shines Like A Sort Of Light From A Woman's Face.

It Is Only In The Act Of Nursing That A Woman Realizes Her Motherhood In Visible And Tangible Fashion; It Is A Joy Of Every Moment.

True Love Is Mixed Up With Birdlike Squabbles, In Which The Disputants Wound Each Other To The Quick; But A Quarrel Without Animus Is, On The Contrary, Apiece Of Flattery To The Dupe's Conceit.

Nobody Loves A Woman Because She Is Handsome Or Ugly, Stupid Or Intelligent. We Love Because We Love.

Among Fifty Percent Of Your Married Couples, The Husband Worries Very Little About What His Wife Is Doing, Provided She Is Doing All He Wishes.