It was not the least use to her....

Her death is the best thing that could have happened, for her own sake
and for those belonging to her. But I cannot take my thoughts off the
hours which preceded her end; the time that passed between the moment
when she decided to commit suicide until she actually carried out her
resolve.

* * * * *

"If men suspected ..."

It may safely be said that on the whole surface of the globe not one man
exists who really knows a woman.

They know us in the same way as the bees know the flowers; by the
various perfumes they impart to the honey. No more.

How could it be otherwise? If a woman took infinite pains to reveal
herself to a husband or a lover just as she really is, he would think
she was suffering from some incurable mental disease.

A few of us indicate our true natures in hysterical outbreaks, fits of
bitterness and suspicion; but this involuntary frankness is generally
discounted by some subtle deceit.

Do men and women ever tell each other the truth? How often does that
happen? More often than not, I think, they deal in half-lies, hiding
this, embroidering that, fact.