All Romances End At Marriage.

Their Position Was Perhaps The Happiest Of All Positions In The Social Scale, Being Above The Line At Which Neediness Ends, And Below The Line At Which The Convenances Begin To Cramp Natural Feeling, And The Stress Of Threadbare Modishness Makes Too Little Of Enough.

Bless Thy Simplicity, Tess

Because What's The Use Of Learning That I Am One Of A Long Row Only - Finding Out That There Is Set Down In Some Old Book Somebody Just Like Me, And To Know That I Shall Only Act Her Part; Making Me Sad, That's All. The Best Is Not To Remember Your Nature And Your Past Doings Have Been Just Like Thousands' And Thousands', And That Your Coming Life And Doings'll Be Like Thousands' And Thousands'.

He Looked And Smelt Like Autumn's Very Brother, His Face Being Sunburnt To Wheat-colour, His Eyes Blue As Corn-flowers, His Sleeves And Leggings Dyed With Fruit-stains, His Hands Clammy With The Sweet Juice Of Apples, His Hat Sprinkled With Pips, And Everywhere About Him The Sweet Atmosphere Of Cider Which At Its First Return Each Season Has Such An Indescribable Fascination For Those Who Have Been Born And Bred Among The Orchards.

The Smile On Your Mouth Was The Deadest Thing Alive Enough To Have Strength To Die. (from "neutral Tones")