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     A common age once, when he married her; now she had grown old
     A fortress face; strong and massive, and honourable in ruin
     Agostino was enjoying the smoke of paper cigarettes
     An angry woman will think the worst
     Anguish to think of having bent the knee for nothing
     Art of despising what he coveted
     As the Lord decided, so it would end!  “Oh, delicious creed!”
     Be on your guard the next two minutes he gets you alone
     But is there such a thing as happiness
     By our manner of loving we are known
     Compliment of being outwitted by their own offspring
     Conduct is never a straight index where the heart’s involved
     Confess no more than is necessary, but do everything you can
     Critical in their first glance at a prima donna
     Deep as a mother’s, pure as a virgin’s, fiery as a saint’s
     Defiance of foes and (what was harder to brave) of friends
     Do I serve my hand? or, Do I serve my heart? 
     English antipathy to babblers
     Every church of the city lent its iron tongue to the peal
     Fast growing to be an eccentric by profession
     Foolish trick of thinking for herself
     Forgetfulness is like a closing sea
     Fortitude leaned so much upon the irony
     Good nerve to face the scene which he is certain will be enacted
     Government of brain; not sufficient Insurrection of heart
     Grand air of pitying sadness
     Had taken refuge in their opera-glasses
     Hated tears, considering them a clog to all useful machinery
     He is in the season of faults
     He is inexorable, being the guilty one of the two
     He postponed it to the next minute and the next
     Her singing struck a note of grateful remembered delight
     I always respected her; I never liked her
     I hope I am not too hungry to discriminate
     I know nothing of imagination
     Impossible for us women to comprehend love without folly in man
     In Italy, a husband away, ze friend takes title
     Intentions are really rich possessions
     Ironical fortitude
     It rarely astonishes our ears It illumines our souls
     Italians were like women, and wanted—­a real beating
     Longing for love and dependence
     Love of men and women as a toy that I have played with
     Madness that sane men enamoured can be struck by
     Morales, madame, suit ze sun
     Necessary for him to denounce somebody
     Never, never love a married woman
     No intoxication of hot blood to cheer those who sat at home
     No word is more lightly spoken than shame
     Not to be feared more than are the general race of bunglers
     O heaven! of what avail is human effort? 
     Obedience oils necessity