You Could Sometimes See Her

That Cold Accretion Called The World, So Terrible In The Mass, Is So Non Formidable, Even Pitiable, In Its Units.

Dialect Words Are Those Terrible Marks Of The Beast To The Truly Genteel.

He Wished She Knew His Impressions; But He Would As Soon Have Thought Of Carrying An Odour In A Net As Of Attempting To Convey The Intangibilities Of His Feeling In The Coarse Meshes Of Language. So He Remained Silent.

Tis Because We Be On A Blighted Star, And Not A Sound One, Isn't It Tess?

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.