...she Moved About In A Mental Cloud

And Yet To Every Bad There Is A Worse.

Some Women's Love Of Being Loved Is Insatiable; And So, Often, Is Their Love Of Loving; And In The Last Case They May Find That They Can't Give It Continuously To The Chamber-officer Appointed By The Bishop's License To Receive It.

Why It Was That Upon This Beautiful Feminine Tissue, Sensitive As Gossamer, And Practically Blank As Snow As Yet, There Should Have Been Traced Such A Coarse Pattern As It Was Doomed To Receive; Why So Often The Coarse Appropriates The Finer Thus, The Wrong Man The Woman, The Wrong Women The Man, Many Years Of Analytical Philosophy Have Failed To Explain To Our Sense Of Order

Teach Me To Live, That I May Dread The Grave As Little As My Bed. Teach Me To Die.

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.