Man’s inhumanity to man is proverbial, woman’s inhumanity to woman is diabolical.

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“Society, as it exists at present moment in Colonial towns and cities, possesses neither birth, brains or breeding.”

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“We hear men speak so frequently of womanly women, ending their praises with, ‘she is essentially womanly.’  I knew one of these womanly women, whose voice was like liquid music, whose ways were gentle, whose eyes filled with tears at the recital of some tale of woe, and always about her was an air of gentle, womanly sweetness and dainty femininity.  She had a friend who loved her, one whose voice was not so soft, whose manner was brusque, who was considered, “not quite good form, you know.”  My womanly woman allowed this friend to take upon herself the burden of a sin which she herself had committed, allowed her to bear the brunt of scorn and contumely of her world, allowed her to die without righting the great wrong.  A lonely grave and a plain marble slab mark the spot where she who was “not quite good form,” lies:  while she, to whom she had given more than life, gathers the rose leaves with dainty grace, for she is so essentially ‘womanly.’”

Life:  a little joy, great sorrow, some tragedy, and the curtain falls.

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Nothing can hurt so cruelly as the hand of love.  The hand of hate is velvet in comparison.

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There are women who consider the world well lost for the man whom they love and idealize; while upon close acquaintance they would discover that he was not worth even the loss of a dinner.

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Twelve “good men and true”, will, after mature deliberation, consign a man to the gallows.  Twelve women, good and true, will, without any deliberation, send a woman to death by their venomous tongues.

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There are a few people who would change their individuality for that of another.  We might be willing to exchange positions, to exchange all that is apparent to the eyes of the world, but our inner consciousness, our memories, our thoughts, feelings and desires; all that is part and parcel of ourselves, we hold sacred.

Some minds are so small that a favour weighs heavily upon them.

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At times one is inclined to believe that even the gods are guilty of favouritism.

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Some people’s lives are like a flower, the more they are crushed, the sweeter the perfume they exhale.

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There are some people who look so rigidly virtuous and repellant that it is a satisfaction to feel one’s self just a little bit wicked.

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