So The Storm Passed And Every One

She Was Moved By A Kind Of Commiseration... A Pity For That Colorless Existence Which Never Uplifted Its Possessor Beyond The Region Of Blind Contentment, In Which No Moment Of Anguish Ever Visited Her Soul, In Which She Would Never Have The Taste Of Life's Delirium.

The Bird That Would Soar Above The Level Plain Of Tradition And Prejudice Must Have Strong Wings. It Is A Sad Spectacle To See The Weaklings Bruised, Exhausted, Fluttering Back To Earth.

No, I Only Think You Cruel, As I Said The Other Day. Maybe Not Intentionally Cruel; But You Seem To Be Forcing Me Into Disclosures Which Can Result In Nothing; As If You Would Have Me Bare A Wound For The Pleasure Of Looking At It, Without The Intention Or Power Of Healing It.

I Should Never Deem A Man Of Ordinary Caliber Worthy Of My Devotion.

We Shall Be Everything To Each Other. Nothing Else In The World Is Of Any Consequence.