There’s more sympathy wasted over dead and rotten skunks than there is justice done to straight, honest-livin’ chaps.
I hate them high-flown words. I got a book at home that I could get them all out of if I wanted them; but I don’t.
She thinks of things in her own life, for there is little else to think about.
She has few pleasures to think of as she sits here alone by the fire.
They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone.
We break our hearts, oh, we break our hearts! For the things we must not tell.
I think that the happiest time in a man’s life is when he’s courting a girl and finds out for sure that she loves him and hasn’t a thought for any one else.