emember the sorrow of thine own wife
Remember your own sins before you
charge others
Rewarded for its mistakes
Romance is an incident to a man
Sacrifice to the god of the pin-hole
Sardonic pleasure in the miseries of
the world
Saw how futile was much competition
Saying uncomfortable things in a
deferential way
Scoundrel, too weak to face the
consequences of his sin
Secret of life: to keep your own
commandments
Self-will, self-pride, and
self-righteousness were big in him
She lacked sense a little and
sensitiveness much
She was not to be forced to answer his
arguments directly
She knew what to say and what to leave
unsaid
She was beginning to understand that
evil is not absolute
She valued what others found useless
She wasn't young, but she seemed so
She had not suffered that sickness,
social artifice
She had provoked love, but had never
given it
She had never stooped to conquer
Should not make our own personal
experience a law unto the world
Shure, if we could always be 'about the
same,' we'd do
Simply to have death renewed every
morning
Slander ever scorches where it touches
Slow-footed hours wandered by, leaving
apathy in their train
Smiling was part of his equipment
So say your prayers, believe all you
can, don't ask questions
Solitude fixes our hearts immovably on
things
Some people are rough with the
poor--and proud
Some wise men are fools, one way or
another
Some are hurt in one way and some in
another
Sometimes the longest way round is the
shortest way home
Soul tortured through different degrees
of misunderstanding
Spurting out little geysers of other
people's cheap wisdom
Still the end of your existence, I
rejoined--to be amused?
Strike first and heal after--"a kick
and a lick"
Struggle of conscience and expediency
Surely she might weep a little for
herself
Suspicion, the bane of sick old age
Sympathy, with curiousness in their
eyes and as much inhumanity
Sympathy and consolation might be much
misplaced
Thanked him in her heart for the things
he had left unsaid
That anxious civility which beauty can
inspire
That iceberg which most mourners carry
in their breasts
That he will find the room empty where
I am not
The Government cherish the Injin much
in these days
The Injin speaks the truth,
perhaps--eye of red man multiplies
The blind tyranny of the just
The soul of goodness
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