I Cannot Express It: But

It Is Hard To Forgive, And To Look At Those Eyes, And Feel Those Wasted Hands,' He Answered. 'kiss Me Again; And Don’t Let Me See Your Eyes! I Forgive What You Have Done To Me. I Love My Murderer—but Yours! How Can I?

Any Relic Of The Dead Is Precious, If They Were Valued Living.

Oh, Cathy! Oh, My Life! How Can I Bear It?" Was The First Sentence He Uttered, In A Tone That Did Not Seek To Disguise His Despair. And Now He Stared At Her So Earnestly That I Thought The Very Intensity Of His Gaze Would Bring Tears Into His Eyes; But They Burned With Anguish: They Did Not Melt.

Love Is Like The Wild Rose-briar; Friendship Like The Holly-tree. The Holly Is Dark When The Rose-briar Blooms, But Which Will Bloom Most Constantly?

A Sensible Man Ought To Find Sufficient Company In Himself.