ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:A heart-break for that kind is their salvationA man may be forgiven for a sin, but the effect remainsA man you could bank on, and draw your interest reg’larAboriginal dispersionAll he has to do is to be vague, and look prodigious (Scientist)And even envy praised herAudience that patronisingly listens outside a room or windowBut to pay the vulgar penalty of prison—ah!Death is a magnificent ally; it untangles knotsDeath is not the worst of evilsEngrossed more, it seemed, in the malady than in the manEvery true woman is a mother, though she have no childFear a woman are when she hates, and when she lovesFor a man having work to do, woman, lovely woman, is rocksHe didn’t always side with the majorityHe had neither self-consciousness nor fearHer own suffering always set her laughing at herselfIt is difficult to be idle—and important tooIt is hard to be polite to cowardsJews everywhere treated worse than the ChinamanLearned what fools we mortals beLove can outlive slanderMen do not steal up here: that is the unpardonable crimeOne always buys back the past at a tremendous priceOne doesn’t choose to worrySaying uncomfortable things in a deferential wayShe had provoked love, but had never given itSlow-footed hours wandered by, leaving apathy in their train“Still the end of your existence,” I rejoined—“to be amused?”That anxious civility which beauty can inspireThe happy scene of the play before the villain comes inThe ravings of a sick man are not always counted ravingsThe sea is a great breeder of friendshipThe tender care of a woman—than many pharmacopoeiasThe threshold of an acknowledged loveThere are things we repent of which cannot be repairedThere is no refuge from memory and remorse in this worldThink that a woman gives the heart for pleasant weather only?Thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heartTime a woman most yearns for a man is when she has refused himVanity; and from this much feminine hatred springsVery severe on those who do not pretend to be goodWhat is gone is gone Graves are idolatryWho get a morbid enjoyment out of miseryWould look back and not remember that she had a childhood