Our destinies are our own.

With our own fingers we mould and shape them." "There is the little voice," she said, "the little voice, which rings even through our dreams.

Life--actual, militant life, I mean--may have its vulgarities, its weariness and its disappointments, but it is, after all, the only place for men and women.

The battle may be sordid, and the prizes tinsel--yet it is only the cowards who linger without." "Then let you and me be cowards," he answered.

"We shall at least be happy." She shook her head a little sadly.
"I doubt it," she answered.