Love Is Like The Measles; We All

"not Sure," He Retorted; "you Call Yourself A Journalist, And Admit There Is A Subject Under Heaven Of Which You Are Not Sure!"

The Facts Of Life Are The Impossibilities Of Fiction.

Love Is Too Pure A Light To Burn Long Among The Noisome Gases That We Breathe, But Before It Is Choked Out We May Use It As A Torch To Ignite The Cozy Fire Of Affection.

I Should Never Make Anything Of A Fisherman. I Had Not Got Sufficient Imagination

I Had Walked Into That Reading-room A Happy, Healthy Man. I Crawled Out A Decrepit Wreck.