Are we to have nothing tonight?" said one of them, with a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it. For...
Once again...welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.
Love is, after all, a selfish thing; and it throws a black shadow on anything between which and the light it stands.
Despair has its own calms.
Remember my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker
Good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels can read.
Because if a woman's heart was free a man might have hope.
You reason well, and your wit is bold, but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think...
We are all drifting reefwards now, and faith is our only anchor.
Though sympathy alone can't alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable.
There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration.
I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.
I have crossed oceans of time to find you.
But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one. Men know him not, and to know not is to care not for.
And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere 'modernity' cannot kill.
Whether it is the old lady's fear, or the many ghostly traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual.
Never did tombs look so ghastly white. Never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funeral gloom. Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously. Never did bough creak so myst...
I want you to believe...to believe in things that you cannot.
Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he even loves me.
To die, to be really dead, that must be glorious!