Once A Gentleman, And Always A Gentleman.

What Is Natural In Me, Is Natural In Many Other Men, I Infer, And So I Am Not Afraid To Write That I Never Had Loved Steerforth Better Than When The Ties That Bound Me To Him Were Broken. In The Keen Distress Of The Discovery Of His Unworthiness, I Thought More Of All That Was Brilliant In Him, I Softened More Towards All That Was Good In Him, I Did More Justice To The Qualities That Might Have Made Him A Man Of A Noble Nature And A Great Name, Than Ever I Had Done In The Height Of My Devotion To Him.

A Dangerous Quality, If Real; And A Not Less Dangerous One, If Feigned.

I Think It Must Somewhere Be Written That The Virtues Of Mothers Shall Be Visited On Their Children, As Well As The Sins Of Their Fathers.

Some Of The Craftiest Scoundrels That Ever Walked This Earth . . . Will Gravely Jot Down In Diaries The Events Of Every Day, And Keep A Regular Debtor And Creditor Account With Heaven, Which Shall Always Show A Floating Balance In Their Own Favour.

I Only Ask To Be Free. The Butterflies Are Free. Mankind Will Surely Not Deny To Harold Skimpole What It Concedes To The Butterflies.