What A Thing Of Fantasy A Woman

The Most Real Of All Splendors Are Not In Outward Things, They Are Within Us.

All Happiness Depends On Courage And Work.

Happiness Lends Poetic Charms To Woman, And Dress Adorns Her Like A Delicate Tinge Of Rouge.

No Hawk Swooping Down Upon His Prey, No Stag Improvising New Detours By Which To Trick The Huntsman, No Dog Scenting Game From Afar Is Comparable In Speed To The Celerity Of A Salesman When He Gets Wind A Deal, To His Skill In Tripping Up Or Forestalling A Rival, And To The Art With Which He Sniffs Out And Discovers A Possible Sale.

Nobody Loves A Woman Because She Is Handsome Or Ugly, Stupid Or Intelligent. We Love Because We Love.