Reform Is Born Of Need, Not Pity.

One Sees That Dead, Vacant Look Steal Over The Rarest, Finest Of Women's Faces . . . In The Very Midst, It May Be, Of Their Warmest Summer's Day; And Then One Can Guess At The Secret Of Intolerable Solitude That Lies Hid Beneath The Delicate Laces . . .

But Remember, I Am No Politician, And No Seer Into Souls.

War May Be An Armed Angel With A Mission, But She Has The Personal Habits Of The Slums.

It Has Happened To Me To Meet Many Of The Men Of My Day Whom The World Agreed To Call Great.

... I Suppose That The Party Or Sect Which Is To Do Any Work In The World Must Breathe Its Own Peculiar Atmosphere, Speak Its Own Little Patois, And See But One Side Of The Question On Which It Fights.