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It is in the Spring that the ache for the larger life comes on us, and this was a particularly mellow Spring morning. It was the sort of morning when the air gives us a feeling of anticipation—a feeling that, on a day like this, things surely cannot go jogging along in the same dull old groove; a premonition that something romantic and exciting is about to happen to us.
It does not matter what a man collects; if Nature has given him the collector's mind he will become a fanatic on the subject of whatever collection he sets out to make.
Collecting, as Mr. Peters did it, resembles the drink habit. It begins as an amusement and ends as an obsession.
It is the saddest spectacle in the world—that of the crowd collected by a Wanted advertisement. They are so palpably not wanted by anyone for any purpose whatsoever; yet every time they gather together with a sort of hopeful hopelessness.
It is curious how frequently in this world our attempts to stimulate and uplift swoop back on us and smite us like boomerangs.
Cold is the ogre that drives all beautiful things into hiding.
"And I'm a woman. And my theory, Mr. Marson, is that a woman can do nearly everything better than a man.
