Pity Is Woman's Sweetest Charm.

The Majority Of Husbands Remind Me Of An Orangutan Trying To Play The Violin.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

Society Bristles With Enigmas Which Look Hard To Solve. It Is A Perfect Maze Of Intrigue.

Imagination Helps The Realism Of Every Detail, And Only Sees The Beauties Of The Work.

Poverty Is A Divine Stepmother Who Does For Youths What Their Own Mothers Were Unable To Do. It Introduces Them To Frugality, To The World And To Life.