The happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no history. — 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.

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