The Books - The Generous

No Sensible Man Ever Engages, Unprepared, In A Fencing Match Of Words With A Woman.

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.

I Roused Myself From The Book Which I Was Dreaming Over Rather Than Reading, And Left My Chambers To Meet The Cool Night Air In The Suburbs.

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.

The Future Of English Fiction May Rest With This Unknown Public - A Reading Public Of Three Millions Which Lies Right Out Of The Pale Of True Literary Civilization - Which Is Now Waiting To Be Taught The Difference Between A Good Book And A Bad.