A Woman of Thirty

But reason always cuts a poor figure beside sentiment; the one being essentially restricted, like everything that is positive, while the other is infinite.

What is a child, monsieur, but the image of two beings, the fruit of two sentiments spontaneously blended?

Love has its own instinct, finding the way to the heart, as the feeblest insect finds the way to its flower, with a will which nothing can dismay nor turn aside.