The Nearer She Came To Death, The

After A Day Of Rain The Sun Came Out Suddenly At Five O'clock And Threw A Golden Bar Into The Deep Victorian Gloom Of The Front Parlour

To Mourn Was Distressing, But To Endeavor To Mourn And Fail Was Worse Than Distress.

I Have Little Faith In The Theory That Organized Killing Is The Best Prelude To Peace.

The Pathos Of Life Is Worse Than The Tragedy.

Surely The Novel Should Be A Form Of Art - But Art Was Not Enough. It Must Contain Not Only The Perfection Of Art, But The Imperfection Of Nature.