I've never any pity for conceited people, because I think they carry their comfort about with them. — George Eliot

These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

Jealousy is never satisfied with anything short of an omniscience that would detect the subtlest fold of the heart.

There was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, were one still, pale cloud; no sound or motion in anything but the dark river that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow.