It was the destiny of Napoleon - would it one day be his?
Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we! For such as we are made of, such we be. Twelfth Night It.
It seemed to Julian that there was far too much hair in his wig.
She had caprices of a marvellous unexpectedness, and how is any one to imitate a caprice?
To write a book is to risk being shot at in public.
What is the use of a love that makes one yawn? One might as well take to religion.