…to hope for death by his side, and for one brief moment in which to tell him that her love-whole true and passionate- was entirely his.

We seek him here, we seek him there, Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? – Is he in hell? That damned, elusive Pimpernel?

A surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only in name, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but savage creatures, animated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance...

It is only when we are very happy that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent, irritating monotony, to the accompaniment...

Your mock saint who stands in a niche is not a woman if she have not suffered, still less a woman if she have not sinned. Fall at the feet of your idol as you...

To love, for us men, is to clasp one woman with our arms, feeling that she lives and breathes just as we do, suffers as we do, thinks with us, loves with us, and, above...