The Errors Of Women Spring, Almost Always,

A Lui La Foi, A' Elle Le Doute, A' Elle Le Fardeau Le Plus Lourd: La Femme Ne Souffre-t-elle Pas Toujours Pour Deux? For Him, Faith; For Her, Doubt And For Her Theheavier Load: Does Not The Woman Always Suffer For Both?

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

Even Beauty Cannot Always Palliate Eccentricity.

To Kill A Relative Of Whom You Are Tired Is Something. But To Inherit His Property Afterwards, That Is Genuine Pleasure.

A Wife Is Property That One Acquires By Contract, She Is Transferable, Because Possession Of Her Requires Title; In Fact, Woman Is, So To Speak, Only Man's Appendage; Consequently, Slice, Cut, Clip Her, You Have All Rights To Her.