So Each Had A Private Little Sun

...our Impulses Are Too Strong For Our Judgement Sometimes

If We Be Doomed To Marry, We Marry; If We Be Doomed To Remain Single We Do.

Always Wanting Another Man Than Your Own.

That Cold Accretion Called The World, So Terrible In The Mass, Is So Non Formidable, Even Pitiable, In Its Units.

There Are Disappointments Which Wring Us, And There Are Those Which Inflict A Wound Whose Mark We Bear To Our Graves. Such Are So Keen That No Future Gratification Of The Same Desire Can Ever Obliterate Them: They Become Registered As A Permanent Loss Of Happiness.