And Yet To Every Bad There Is

They Spoke Very Little Of Their Mutual Feeling; Pretty Phrases And Warm Expressions Being Probably Unnecessary Between Such Tried Friends.

The Defective Can Be More Than The Entire.

It Was The Touch Of The Imperfect Upon The Would-be Perfect That Gave The Sweetness, Because It Was That Which Gave The Humanity

You Are Joseph The Dreamer Of Dreams, Dear Jude. And A Tragic Don Quixote. And Sometimes You Are St. Stephen, Who, While They Were Stoning Him, Could See Heaven Opened. Oh, My Poor Friend And Comrade, You'll Suffer Yet!

Her Affection For Him Was Now The Breath And Life Of Tess's Being; It Enveloped Her As A Photosphere, Irradiated Her Into Forgetfulness Of Her Past Sorrows, Keeping Back The Gloomy Spectres That Would Persist In Their Attempts To Touch Her—doubt, Fear, Moodiness, Care, Shame. She Knew That They Were Waiting Like Wolves Just Outside The Circumscribing Light, But She Had Long Spells Of Power To Keep Them In Hungry Subjection There.