A common age once, when he married her; now she had grown old
A fortress face; strong and massive, and honourable in ruin
Agostino was enjoying the smoke of paper cigarettes
An angry woman will think the worst
Anguish to think of having bent the knee for nothing
Art of despising what he coveted
As the Lord decided, so it would end! "Oh, delicious creed!"
Be on your guard the next two minutes he gets you alone
But is there such a thing as happiness
By our manner of loving we are known
Compliment of being outwitted by their own offspring
Conduct is never a straight index where the heart's involved
Confess no more than is necessary, but do everything you can
Critical in their first glance at a prima donna
Deep as a mother's, pure as a virgin's, fiery as a saint's
Defiance of foes and (what was harder to brave) of friends
Do I serve my hand? or, Do I serve my heart?
English antipathy to babblers
Every church of the city lent its iron tongue to the peal
Fast growing to be an eccentric by profession
Foolish trick of thinking for herself
Forgetfulness is like a closing sea
Fortitude leaned so much upon the irony
Good nerve to face the scene which he is certain will be enacted
Government of brain; not sufficient Insurrection of heart
Grand air of pitying sadness
Had taken refuge in their opera-glasses
Hated tears, considering them a clog to all useful machinery
He is in the season of faults
He is inexorable, being the guilty one of the two
He postponed it to the next minute and the next
Her singing struck a note of grateful remembered delight
I always respected her; I never liked her
I hope I am not too hungry to discriminate
I know nothing of imagination
Impossible for us women to comprehend love without folly in man
In Italy, a husband away, ze friend takes title
Intentions are really rich possessions
Ironical fortitude
It rarely astonishes our ears It illumines our souls
Italians were like women, and wanted—a real beating
Longing for love and dependence
Love of men and women as a toy that I have played with
Madness that sane men enamoured can be struck by
Morales, madame, suit ze sun
Necessary for him to denounce somebody
Never, never love a married woman
No intoxication of hot blood to cheer those who sat at home
No word is more lightly spoken than shame
Not to be feared more than are the general race of bunglers
O heaven! of what avail is human effort?
Obedience oils necessity
Our life is but a little holding, lent To do a mighty labour
Pain is a cloak that wraps you about
Patience is the pestilence
People who can lose themselves in a ray of fancy at any season
Profound belief in her partiality for him
Question with some whether idiots should live
Rarely exacted obedience, and she was spontaneously obeyed
She thought that friendship was sweeter than love
She was sick of personal freedom
Simple obstinacy of will sustained her
Speech was a scourge to her sense of hearing
Taint of the hypocrisy which comes with shame
The devil trusts nobody
The divine afflatus of enthusiasm buoyed her no longer
They take fever for strength, and calmness for submission
Too weak to resist, to submit to an outrage quietly
Too well used to defeat to believe readily in victory
Was born on a hired bed
Watch, and wait
We are good friends till we quarrel again
We can bear to fall; we cannot afford to draw back
Went into endless invalid's laughter
Who shrinks from an hour that is suspended in doubt
Whole body of fanatics combined to precipitate the devotion
Why should these men take so much killing?
Will not admit the existence of a virtue in an opposite opinion
Women and men are in two hostile camps
You can master pain, but not doubt
Youth will not believe that stupidity and beauty can go together