In The First Woman We

At Thirty Years A Woman Asks Her Lover To Give Her Back The Esteem She Has Forfeited For His Sake; She Lives Only For Him, Her Thoughts Are Full Of His Future, He Must Have A Great Career, She Bids Him Make It Glorious; She Can Obey, Entreat, Command, Humble Herself, Or Rise In Pride; Times Without Number She Brings Comfort When A Young Girl Can Only Make Moan.

Virtue, Perhaps, Is Nothing More Than Politeness Of Soul.

Nothing Is So Discreet As A Young Face, For Nothing Is Less Mobile; It Has The Serenity, The Surface Smoothness, And The Freshnessof A Lake. There Is No Character In Women's Faces Before The Age Of Thirty.

In Paris Every Man Must Have Had A Love Affair. What Woman Wants Something That No Other Woman Ever Wanted.

I Declare, On My Soul And Conscience, That The Attainment Of Power, Or Of A Great Name In Literature, Seemed To Me An Easier Victory Than A Success With Some Young, Witty, And Gracious Lady Of High Degree.