She put her hand on my arm in the sweetest way in the world and said: 'I know all about it, my dear, and that is why I thought I'd come myself as Harold's ambassador.' Wasn't it beautiful of her ?" She looked at me and her eyes were filled with tears.
"Marcus dear, I am not a bad woman, am I ?" "My dearest," I answered, very deeply touched, "you are the best woman in the world.

So far from conferring a favour on you, Mrs.Willoughby has gained for herself the inestimable privilege of your friendship." "Ah!" said Judith, "a man cannot tell what it means." Really men are not such dullard dunderheads as women are pleased to imagine.

I have the most crystalline perception of what Mrs.
Willoughby's invitation means to Judith.

Women appear to find a morbid satisfaction in the fiction that their sex is actuated by a mysterious nexus of emotions and motives which the grosser sense of man is powerless to appreciate.

In her heart of hearts it is a prodigious comfort to a woman to feel herself misunderstood.