Sympathies that lie too deep for words, too deep almost for thoughts, are touched, at such times, by other charms than those which the senses feel and which the resources of expression can realise.

The books—the generous friends who met me without suspicion—the merciful masters who never used me ill! The only years of my life that I can look back on with something like pride... Early and late, through the long winter nights and the quiet summer days, I drank at the fountain of knowledge, and never wearied of the draught.

I dread the beginning of her new life more than words can tell, but I see some hope for her if she travels - none if she remains at home.

Our words are giants when they do us an injury, and dwarfs when they do us a service.

The explanation has been written already in the three words that were many enough, and plain enough, for my confession. I loved her.