Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves in my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

It seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no control.

Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Phar…

April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears!

One afternoon in early January, the weather showed a lack of character. There was no frost nor wind: the trees in the garden did not stir.

'It was ideal apple-eating weather; the whitest sunlight descended from the purest sky, and an easterly wind rustled, without ripping loose, the last of the le…