He had placed himself at her feet so long that the poor little woman had been accustomed to trample upon him.  She didn’t wish to marry him, but she wished to keep him.  She wished to give him nothing, but that he should give her all.  It is a bargain not unfrequently levied in love.—­Vanity Fair.

     Every woman would rather be beautiful, than be anything else in the
     world,—­ever so rich, or ever so good, or have all the gifts of the
     fairies.—­The Virginians.

If a man is in grief, who cheers him; in trouble, who consoles him; in wrath, who soothes him; in joy, who makes him doubly happy; in prosperity, who rejoices; in disgrace, who backs him against the world, and dresses with gentle unguents and warm poultices the rankling wounds made by the stings and arrows of outrageous Fortune?  Who but woman, if you please?  You who are ill and sore from the buffets of Fate, have you one or two of these sweet physicians?  Return thanks to the gods that they have left you so much of consolation.  What gentleman is not more or less a Prometheus?  Who has not his rock, his chain?  But the sea-nymphs come,—­the gentle, the sympathizing; ... they do their blessed best to console us Titans; they don’t turn their backs upon us after our overthrow.—­The Virginians.

Is not a young mother one of the sweetest sights which life shows us?  If she has been beautiful before, does not her present pure joy give a character of refinement and sacredness almost to her beauty, touch her sweet cheeks with fairer blushes, and impart I know not what serene brightness to her eyes?—­The Newcomes.

This lady moved through the world quite regardless of all the comments that were made in her praise or disfavor.  She did not seem to know that she was admired or hated for being so perfect, but went on calmly through life, saving her prayers, loving her family, helping her neighbors, and doing good.—­Pendennis.

She had a fault of character which flawed her perfections.  With the other sex perfectly tolerant and kindly, of her own she was invariably jealous; and a proof that she had this vice is, that though she would acknowledge a thousand faults that she had not, to which she had she could never be got to own.—­Henry Esmond.

     She was a critic, not by reason, but by feeling.  Feeling was her
     reason.—­Henry Esmond.

Her eyes were gray; her voice low and sweet:  and her smile when it lighted up her face and eyes as beautiful as spring sunshine, also, they could brighten and flash often, and sometimes though rarely rain.—­Pendennis.