A Heart Well Worth Winning, And Well

... As To Sleep, You Know, I Never Sleep Now. I Might Be A Watchman, Except That I Don't Get Any Pay, And He's Got Nothing On His Mind.

I Know Enough Of The World Now To Have Almost Lost The Capacity Of Being Much Surprised By Anything

The Talker Has Found A Hearer But Not A Listener; And Though He May Talk His Very Best For His Own Sake, You Will Find That His Mental Movements Are Erratic: They Have No Fixed Centre And No Definite Object. His Talk Is Like The Water Of A Canal Whose Banks Have Given Way, Which Rolls Aimlessly Hither And Thither, Without Fulfilling Any Useful Function, Though It Is The Same Water Which Was So Helpful And Serviceable, When It Was Confined Within Clearly Marked Limits By The Restraining Force Of Its Earthy Boundaries.

... I Had A Latent Impression That There Was Something Decidedly Fine In Mr. Wopsle's Elocution - Not For Old Associations' Sake, I Am Afraid, But Because It Was Very Slow, Very Dreary, Very Up-hill And Down-hill, And Very Unlike Any Way In Which Any Man In Any Natural Circumstances Of Life Or Death Ever Expressed Himself About Anything.

When They Took A Young Man Into Tellson's London House, They Hid Him Somewhere Till He Was Old. They Kept Him In A Dark Place, Like A Cheese, Until He Had The Full Tellson Flavour And Blue-mould Upon Him. Then Only Was He Permitted To Be Seen, Spectacularly Poring Over Large Books, And Casting His Breeches And Gaiters Into The General Weight Of The Establishment.