Suspicion Of Happiness Is In Our Blood.

Every Saint Has A Bee In His Halo.

What Kind Of Life A Dog . . . Acquires. I Have Sometimes Tried To Imagine By Kneeling Or Lying Full Length On The Ground And Looking Up. The World Then Becomes Strangely Incomplete; One Sees Little But Legs.

Few Women And Fewer Men Have Enough Character To Be Idle.

Readers Of Novels Are A Strange Folk, Upon Whose Probable Or Even Possible Tastes No Wise Book-maker Would Ever Venture To Bet.

Every Cat Is Really The Most Beautiful Woman In The Room.