Some People Are Nobody's Enemies But Their

Everything That Mr Smallweed's Grandfather Ever Put Away In His Mind Was A Grub At First, And Is A Grub At Last. In All His Life He Has Never Bred A Single Butterfly.

It Was A Murky Confusion — Here And There Blotted With A Color Like The Color Of The Smoke From Damp Fuel — Of Flying Clouds Tossed Up Into Most Remarkable Heaps, Suggesting Greater Heights In The Clouds Than There Were Depths Below Them To The Bottom Of The Deepest Hollows In The Earth, Through Which The Wild Moon Seemed To Plunge Headlong, As If, In A Dread Disturbance Of The Laws Of Nature, She Had Lost Her Way And Were Frightened.

It's In Vain To Recall The Past, Unless It Works Some Influence Upon The Present.

All Through It, I Have Known Myself To Be Quite Undeserving. And Yet I Have Had The Weakness, And Have Still The Weakness, To Wish You To Know With What A Sudden Mastery You Kindled Me, Heap Of Ashes That I Am, Into Fire- A Fire, However, Inseparable In Its Nature From Myself, Quickening Nothing, Lighting Nothing, Doing No Service, Idly Burning Away.

The Habit Of Paying Compliments Kept A Man's Tongue Oiled Without Any Expense.