To Man, Faith; To Woman, Doubt. She

Virtue Is Not A Thing You Can Have By Halves; It Is Or It Is Not.

Jealousy, An Eminently Credulous And Suspicious Passion, Allows Fancy The Greatest Possible Play. But It Does Not Bestow Wit, It Banishes All Sense.

God Is The Author, Men Are Only The Players. These Grand Pieces Which Are Played Upon Earth Have Been Composed In Heaven.

Paris, Like Every Pretty Woman, Is Subject To Inexplicable Whims Of Beauty And Ugliness.

All Human Beings Go Through A Previous Life... Who Knows How Many Fleshly Forms The Heir Of Heaven Occupies Before He Can Be Brought To Understand The Value Of That Silence And Solitude Of Spiritual Worlds?