Chance, my dear, is the sovereign deity in child-bearing.
Love may be the fairest gem which Society has filched from Nature; but what is motherhood save Nature in her most gladsome mood? A smile has dried my tears.
Virtue, my pet, is an abstract idea, varying in its manifestations with the surroundings. Virtue in Provence, in Constantinople, in London, and in Paris bears very different fruit, but is none the less virtue.
Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity.
It is the mark of a great man that he puts to flight all ordinary calculations. He is at once sublime and touching, childlike and of the race of giants.
A husband who submits to his wifes yoke is justly held an object of ridicule. A womans influence ought to be entirely concealed.
The man as he converses is the lover; silent, he is the husband.
A flow of words is a sure sign of duplicity.
Society bristles with enigmas which look hard to solve. It is a perfect maze of intrigue.
Sufferings predispose the mind to devotion, and nearly all young girls, impelled by instinctive tenderness, are inclined to mysticism, the deepest aspect of religion.
It is as difficult for towns and cities as it is for commercial houses to recover from ruin.
The provinces are provinces; they are only ridiculous when they mimic Paris.
Like many widows, she came to the unwise decision of remarrying.
No man would have torn himself from the comfort of a morning nap to listen to a minstrel in a jacket; none but a maid awakes to songs of love.
A man is a poor creature compared to a woman.
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