For once the disease of reading has laid hold upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither.

For the philosopher is right who says that nothing thicker than a knife’s blade separates happiness from melancholy;

Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.

For Orlando’s taste was broad; he was no lover of garden flowers only; the wild and the weeds even had always a fascination for him.

Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than merely to keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world’s view of us.

And she fell to thinking what an odd pass we have come to when all a woman’s beauty has to be kept covered, lest a sailor may fall from a mast-head.

Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?