Lose your temper; swear at the cook like your father; admire Jane Rose's pretty bonnet, or her pretty face; take to horse-racing, do anything that is natural, even if it is wicked.

Anything that doesn't make one think of graves, and stars, and infinities, and souls who died last night; of all of which no doubt we shall have plenty in due season." "All right, dear," answered Morris, with a fine access of forced cheerfulness, "we will have some champagne for dinner and play picquet after it." "Champagne! What's the use of champagne when you only pretend to drink it and fill up the glass with soda-water?
Picquet! You hate it, and so do I; and it is silly losing large sums of money to each other which we never mean to pay.

That isn't the real thing, there's no life in that.

Oh, Morris, if you love me, do cultivate some human error.

It is terrible to have a husband in whom there is nothing to reform." "I will try, love," said Morris, earnestly.
"Yes," she replied, with a gloomy shake of the head, "but you won't succeed.