“I have never known a novel that was good enough to be good in spite of its being…” — Edith Wharton

I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.

I don't know if I should care for a man who made life easy; I should want someone who made it interesting.

The worst of doing one's duty was that it apparently unfitted one for doing anything else.

To be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it?