The Law Is An Ass, An Idiot.

Death Is A Mighty, Universal Truth.

It Is When Our Budding Hopes Are Nipped Beyond Recovery By Some Rough Wind, That We Are The Most Disposed To Picture To Ourselves What Flowers They Might Have Borne, If They Had Flourished . . .

I Wish I Were The Commander In Chief In India... I Should Do My Utmost To Exterminate The Race Upon Whom The Stain Of The Late Cruelties Rested.

Dombey Sat In The Corner Of The Darkened Room In The Great Arm-chair By The Bedside, And Son Lay Tucked Up Warm In A Little Basket Bedstead, Carefully Disposed On A Low Settee Immediately In Front Of The Fire And Close To It, As If His Constitution Were Analogous To That Of A Muffin, And It Was Essential To Toast Him Brown While He Was Very New.

Are There No Prisons?