Trifles Make Up The Happiness Or The

There Is No Ghost So Difficult To Lay As The Ghost Of An Injury.

An Old Novel Has A History Of Its Own.

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

The Greatness Of An Artist Or A Writer Does Not Depend On What He Has In Common With Other Artists And Writers, But On What He Has Peculiar To Himself.

The Spot Of Ground On Which A Man Has Stood Is Forever Interesting To Him.