The Rudiment Of Verse May,

A Short Story Must Have A Single Mood And Every Sentence Must Build Towards It.

And Then There Stole Into My Fancy, Like A Rich Musical Note, The Thought Of What Sweet Rest There Must Be In The Grave.

And Now Have I Not Told You That What You Mistake For Madness Is But Overacuteness Of The Senses?

Mysteries Force A Man To Think, And So Injure His Health.

I Have Before Suggested That A Genuine Blackguard Is Never Without A Pocket-handkerchief.