Or is it that you are all alike, you women?
Isn't there one of you that can be absolutely true?
Isn't there one that won't smirch her soul and kill the faith of those that love her for some moment's excitement, for gold to gratify a vanity, or to have a wider sweep to her skirts?
Vain, vain, vain--and dishonourable, essentially dishonourable.

There might be tragedies, but there wouldn't be many intrigues if women weren't so dishonourable--the secret orchard rather than the open highway and robbery under arms....

Whew, what a world!" He walked up and down the room for a moment, his eyes looking straight before him; then he stopped short.

"I suppose it's natural that, coming back to England, I should begin to unpack a lot of old memories, empty out the box-room, and come across some useless and discarded things.
I'll settle down presently; but it's a thoroughly useless business turning over old stock.

The wise man pitches it all into the junk-shop, and cuts his losses." He picked up the Morning Post and glanced down the middle page--the social column first--with the half-amused reflection that he hadn't done it for years, and that here were the same old names reappearing, with the same brief chronicles.