Tus cartas caen sobre mí como una lluvia que empapa la tierra y hace crecer de golpe lo que estaba en germen. - George Sand

There are no more thorough prudes than those who have some little secret to hide.

Con mi salvaje orgullo, debería haber sido una mujer superior y escoger de un vistazo, como un águila, entre todos aquellos hombres insulsos, falsos y vacuos, uno de esos seres verdaderos y nobles que son escasos y excepcionales en todos los tiempos. Era demasiado ignorante, demasiado limitada para eso. A fuerza de vivir, adquirí más juicio, me di cuenta de que algunos de entre ellos, que en mi odio había confundido, merecían otros sentimientos. Pero para entonces ya era demasiado vieja.

"My good aunt Lucie was on the eve of marriage with an officer who was a friend of my father, and they were all celebrating in the intimacy of the family. My mother was wearing a pretty dress the color of roses. They were dancing a quadrille composed by my father, as he played on his faithful Cremona violin. . . . My mother, feeling a slight malaise, left the dance and went to her bedroom. Since she showed no signs of indisposition and had left so quietly, the dancing continued. My aunt Lucie, as it was ending, went to my mother's bedroom, and almost immediately she was heard to cry, "Come, come quickly, Maurice, you have a daughter!"

"She shall be called Aurore," said my father, "after my poor, dear mother, who is not here to bless her, but who will someday!"
And he took me in his arms. . . .
"She was born to the sound of music and in the color of
roses," said my aunt. "She will know happiness.