Look Back. Look Back At

I Am The Mother That Bore You, And Your Sorrow Is My Agony; And If You Don't Hate Her, I Do' Then, Mother, You Make Me Love Her More. She Is Unjustly Treated By You, And I Must Make The Balance Even.

On Some Such Night As This She Remembered Promising To Herself To Live As Brave And Noble A Life As Any Heroine She Ever Read Or Heard Of In Romance, A Life Sans Peur Et Sans Reproche; It Had Seemed To Her Then That She Had Only To Will, And Such A Life Would Be Accomplished. And Now She Had Learnt That Not Only To Will, But Also To Pray, Was A Necessary Condition In The Truly Heroic. Trusting To Herself, She Had Fallen.

Mr Thornton Would Rather Have Heard That She Was Suffering The Natural Sorrow. In The First Place, There Was Selfishness Enough In Him To Have Taken Pleasure In The Idea That His Great Love Might Come In To Comfort And Console Her; Much The Same Kind Of Strange Passionate Pleasure Which Comes Stinging Through A Mother's Heart, When Her Drooping Infant Nestles Close To Her, And Is Dependent Upon Her For Everything.

I Would Not Trust A Mouse To A Woman If A Man's Judgment Could Be Had.

He Had Not An Ounce Of Superfluous Flesh On His Bones, And Leanness Goes A Great Way Towards Gentility.