It is very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.
You must read this letter right through, though each word may become to you as the fire or knife of the surgeon that makes the delicate flesh burn or bleed.
Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows.
You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages.
This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul.
Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes.
Rugged and straightforward as he was, there was something in his nature that was purely feminine in its tenderness.
If we women did not love you for your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that would alter you much.
I never believe a single word that either you or I say to each other.