Remorse Is The Poison Of Life.

Misery Generates Hate.

I Am Not Your Dear; I Cannot Lie Down: Send Me To School Soon, Mrs. Reed, For I Hate To Live Here.

Now It Is Not Everybody, Even Amongst Our Respected Friends And Esteemed Acquaintance, Whom We Like To Have Near Us, Whom We Like To Watch Us, To Wait On Us, To Approach Us With The Proximity Of A Nurse To A Patient. It Is Not Every Friend Whose Eye Is A Light In A Sickroom, Whose Presence Is There A Solace.

Life Appears To Me Too Short To Be Spent In Nursing Animosity, Or Registering Wrongs.

Silence Is Of Different Kinds, And Breathes Different Meanings.