complications.

This tragedy of a woman, who wanted to be loved, slowly killing the power of loving her in the man, had gone on year after year.

The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value.

Hilary, who, it has been seen, lived in thoughts about events rather than in events themselves.

By love I mean the forgetfulness of self. Unions are frequent in which only the sexual instincts, or the remembrance of self, are roused.

Little things are all big with the past, of whose chain they are the latest links, they frequently produce what apparently are great results.

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Aches to construct something ere he die
By love I mean the forgetfulness of self
Cheapness of this verbiage
Delighting in the present moment
Distrust of her own feelings to give way to them completely
"Each of us," he said, "has a shadow in those places."
Fear of meddling too much, of not meddling enough
Governed by ungovernable pride
Habit of thinking for himself
Human heart," he murmured, "is the tomb of many feelings."
I never suspected him of goin' to live
I will not consent to be a drag on anyone
"If I practise hard," he murmured, "I shall master it."
Immoral to hurt anybody but himself.
Little things are all big with the past
Lived in thoughts about events rather than in events themselves
Love for open air and facts
Low opinion of human nature
Man abstracted, faintly contemptuous of other forms of life
One's got to draw the line." "Ah!" said Cecilia; "where?"
Pabulum of varying theories of future life
Pass out of the country of the understanding of the young
People do miss things when they are old!
Perversity which she found so conspicuous in her servants
Placed beyond the realms of want, who speculated in ideas
Primeval love of stalking
She struggled loyally with her emotion
Simple unspiritual natures of delighting in the present moment
That other mistress with whom he spent so many evening hours
The Old—for whom life had lost its complications
The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value
They'll soon have no ankles to reveal
Thinker meditating upon action
Ungovernable itch to be appreciated
Unless—unless they closed their ears, and eyes, and noses
Wanted to be loved, slowly killing the power of loving
When alive, have been served with careless parsimony
You must not laugh at life—that is blasphemy
"You're worth more," muttered Hilary, "than I can ever give you."
Young—to whom everything seemed simple

THE PATRICIAN /gutenberg/etext01/ptrcn10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

Bertie was standing, more inscrutable and neat than ever, in a perfectly tied cravatte, perfectly cut riding breeches, and boots worn and polished till a sooty glow shone through their natural russet. Not specially dandified in his usual dress, Bertie Caradoc would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse.

Or was it some glimmering perception of the old Greek saying—'Character is Fate;' some sudden sense of the universal truth that all are in bond to their own natures, and what a man has most desired shall in the end enslave him?

And then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can know, she experienced the worst: She could not cry!

"A man who gives advice," he said at last, "is always something of a fool."

And in queer, cheery-looking apathy—not far removed perhaps from despair—he sat, watching the leaves turn over and fall.

"That's the trouble. He suffers from swollen principles—only wish he could keep them out of his speeches."

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Asked no better fate than to have every minute occupied
Awe-inspiring thing, the power of scandal
Better, sir, it should run a risk than have no risk to run
Cheery-looking apathy—not far removed perhaps from despair
Contrivances that hold even the best of women together
Could not cry!
Detached, and perhaps sarcastic face
Electors, who, finding uncertainty distasteful
Excellent manners that have no mannerisms
Faculty of not being bored with his own society
Feeling of irritation which so rapidly attacks the old
Few things that matter, but they matter very much
Having that passion for work requiring no initiation
He suffers from swollen principles
Horse could ever so far forget himself in such a place
I won't ever want what you can't give
If only there were no chains, no walls
Impossible to get him to look at things in a complicated way
Insinuations about the private affairs of others
Insolent poise of those who are above doubts and cares
Lest they should lose belief in their own strength
Man who gives advice is a fool
Man who knows his own mind and is contented with that knowledge
Mayn't they love each other, if they want?
Never talked of women, and none talked of women in his presence
Not being a crying woman, she suffered quietly
Not going to cry, she wanted time to get over the feeling
Not necessary to speak in order to sustain a conversation
Not the man to see what was not intended for him
Occasionally employing irony, she detested it in others
Old age was pathetically trying
People who wanted to meddle with everything
Royal Family if they were allowed to marry as they liked?
Scandal.: Simple statements of simple facts
Secrecy is strength
Secret spring of certainty
She experienced the worst: She could not cry!
Solemn delicious creatures, all front and no behind
Speech seemed but desecration
Temperamentally unable to beg anything of anybody
The boy—for what else was thirty to seventy-six?
They forgot everything but happiness
To a woman the preciousness of her reputation was a fiction
To shut one's eyes, and be happy—was it possible!
Touching evidences of man's desire to persist for ever
Trouble of youth lasted on almost to old age
Unbound as yet by the fascination of fame or fees
What a man has most desired shall in the end enslave him?
Withdrawing room
Would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse

THE BURNING SPEAR /gutenberg/etext01/bsper10.txt

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It was, in fact, that hour of dawn when a shiver goes through the world.

But there are many things we public men would never do if we could see them being done. Fortunately, as a rule we cannot.

I don't want to sacrifice nobody to satisfy my aspirations. Why? Because I've got none. That's priceless. Take the Press, take Parlyment, take Mayors—all mad on aspirations. Now it's Free Trade, now it's Imperialism; now it's Liberty in Europe; now it's Slavery in Ireland; now it's sacrifice of the last man an' the last dollar. You never can tell what aspiration'll get 'em next. And the 'ole point of an aspiration is the sacrifice of someone else.

"All these fellers 'ave got two weaknesses—one's ideas, and the other's their own importance. They've got to be conspicuous, and without ideas they can't, so it's a vicious circle. When I see a man bein' conspicuous, I says to meself: 'Gawd 'elp us, we shall want it!' And sooner or later we always do. I'll tell you what's the curse of the world, sir; it's the gift of expressin' what ain't your real feeling. And—Lord! what a lot of us 'ave got it!"