You Ride Well, But You

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.

Did You Say The Stars Were Worlds, Tess?" "yes." "all Like Ours?" "i Don't Know, But I Think So. They Sometimes Seem To Be Like The Apples On Our Stubbard-tree. Most Of Them Splendid And Sound - A Few Blighted." "which Do We Live On - A Splendid One Or A Blighted One?" "a Blighted One.

Some Folk Want Their Luck Buttered.

Of Course Poets Have Morals And Manners Of Their Own, And Custom Is No Argument With Them.

She Was Not An Existence, An Experience, A Passion, A Structure Of Sensations, To Anybody But Herself. To All Humankind Besides Tess Was Only A Passing Thought. Even To Friends She Was No More Than A Frequently Passing Thought.