My Business In Life Is

The Dull People Decided Years And Years Ago, As Everyone Knows, That Novel-writing Was The Lowest Species Of Literary Exertion, And That Novel Reading Was A Dangerous Luxury And An Utter Waste Of Time.

I Say What Other People Only Think, And When All The Rest Of The World Is In A Conspiracy To Accept The Mask For The True Face, Mine Is The Rash Hand That Tears Off The Plump Pasteboard And Shows The Bare Bones Beneath.

Any Woman Who Is Sure Of Her Own Wits, Is A Match, At Any Time, For A Man Who Is Not Sure Of His Own Temper.

Not The Shadow Of A Doubt Crossed My Mind Of The Purpose For Which The Count Had Left The Theatre. His Escape From Us, That Evening, Was Beyond All Question The Preliminary Only To His Escape From London. The Mark Of The Brotherhood Was On His Arm-i Felt As Certain Of It As If He Had Shown Me The Brand; And The Betrayal Of The Brotherhood Was On His Conscience-i Had Seen It In His Recognition Of Pesca.

I Have Noticed That The Christianity Of A Certain Class Of Respectable People Begins When They Open Their Prayer-books At Eleven O'clock On Sunday Morning, And Ends When They Shut Them Up Again At One O'clock On Sunday Afternoon. Nothing So Astonishes And Insults Christians Of This Sort As Reminding Them Of Their Christianity On A Week-day.