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'And at this hour of the day I don't suppose you've a single one left, have you, Lily?' she plaintively concluded.
Miss Bart caught the startled glance of Mr Percy Gryce, whose own lips were never defiled by tobacco.
'What an absurd question, Bertha!' she exclaimed, blushing at the thought of the store she had laid in at Lawrence Selden's.
'Why, don't you smoke? Since when have you given it up?'

There was, however, one topic she could rely on. She had refrained from touching it because it was a last resource, and she had relied on other arts to stimulate other sensations; but as a settled look of dulness began to creep over his candid features, she saw that extreme measures were necessary.
'And now,' she said, leaning forward, 'are you getting on with your Americana?'

“Wast thou delivered from bondage,” said the spectre, “to pursue carnal delights? Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, and the behest of Heaven engraven on it?”

She always paid for her rare indiscretions by a violent reaction of prudence.

She surveyed him critically. 'Your coat's a little shabby— but who cares? It doesn't keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don't make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop.'

She drew a sympathetic breath. 'But do you mind enough-to marry to get out of it?'
Selden broke into a laugh. 'God forbid!' he declared.
She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate. ‘Ah, there's the difference—a girl must, a man may if he chooses.’

'But do you mind enough to marry to get out of it?'
Selden broke into a laugh. 'God forbid!' he declared.

'I wish I knew—I wish I could make you out. Of course I know there are men who don't like me—one can tell that at a glance. And there are others who are afraid of me: they think I want to marry them.' She smiled up at him frankly. But I don't think you dislike me—and you can't possibly think I want to marry you.'

Everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once strong and fine. He had a confused sense that she must have cost a great deal to make, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysterious way, have been sacrificed to produce her. He was aware that the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external.

There was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her without a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result of far-reaching intentions.

Moreover, in a hundred years, I thought, reaching my own doorstep, women will have ceased to be the protected sex. Logically they will take part in all the activities and exertions that were once denied them. The nursemaid will heave coal. The shopwoman will drive an engine. All assumptions founded on the facts observed when women were the protected sex will have disappeared.

Slipping the silver into my purse, it is remarkable what a change of temper a fixed income will bring about. No force in the world can take from me my five hundred pounds. Food, house, and clothing are mine for ever. Therefore not merely do effort and labour cease, but also hatred and bitterness. I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me. I need not flatter any man; he has nothing to give me.

Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size… Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action. That is why Napoleon and Mussolini both insist so emphatically upon the inferiority of women, for if they were not inferior, they would cease to enlarge.

Possibly when the professor insisted a little too emphatically upon the inferiority of women, he was concerned not with their inferiority, but with his own superioriry.

“He sighed, and retired, but with eyes fixed on the gate, until Matilda, closing it, put an end to an interview, in which the hearts of both had drunk so deeply of a passion, which both now tasted for the first time.”

“Give me thy beauteous hand in token that thou dost not deceive me,” said Theodore; “and let me bathe it with the warm tears of gratitude.”

“The Knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would end.”

You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when they will meet my eyes, when it will haunt my thoughts, no more.

For whilst I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me?

I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good.

Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.

What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin. He seems to feel his own worth, and the greatness of his fall.

I have but one resource; and I devote mysel either in my life or death, to his destruction.

But the apple was already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from all hope.

Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away blooming children, the only hopes of their parents: how many brides and lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made, that I could resist so many shocks, which continually renewed the torture.

But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked hu-manity, pitiable to others, and abhorrent to myself.

"The sounding cataract
Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to him An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye."
- Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”

Clerval! beloved friend! He was a being formed in the "very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination.

My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor; and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being, and become linked to the chain of existence and events, from which I am now excluded.

Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my request!