Book 5 — ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Accidents are the specific for averting the maladies of age Accounting for it, is not the same as excusing Assist in our small sphere; not come mouthing to the footlights Avoid the position that enforces publishing Capacity for thinking should precede the act of writing Chaste are wattled in formalism and throned in sourness Could the best of men be simply—a woman's friend? Enthusiasm has the privilege of not knowing monotony Envy of the man of positive knowledge Expectations dupe us, not trust Externally soft and polished, internally hard and relentless Fiddle harmonics on the sensual strings Heart to keep guard and bury the bones you tossed him Holding to the refusal, for the sake of consistency I don't count them against women (moods) I never knew till this morning the force of No in earnest I wanted a hero I'm in love with everything she wishes! I've got the habit If he had valued you half a grain less, he might have won you Infatuated men argue likewise, and scandal does not move them It is the devil's masterstroke to get us to accuse him Let never Necessity draw the bow of our weakness Literature is a good stick and a bad horse Material good reverses its benefits the more nearly we clasp it Mistake of the world is to think happiness possible to the sense Nothing is a secret that has been spoken Nothing the body suffers that the soul may not profit by Now far from him under the failure of an effort to come near Our weakness is the swiftest dog to hunt us Question the gain of such an expenditure of energy Rare men of honour who can command their passion Read with his eyes when you meet him this morning Sham spiritualism She had sunk her intelligence in her sensations Sympathy is for proving, not prating The debts we owe ourselves are the hardest to pay Trial of her beauty of a woman in a temper We don't know we are in halves We're a peaceful people, but 'ware who touches us Weighty little word—woman's native watchdog and guardian (No!) When we despair or discolour things, it is our senses in revolt Who can really think, and not think hopefully? Who venerate when they love With that I sail into the dark Women with brains, moreover, are all heartless

[The End]