"Maybe the hairs on my head were numbered" she went on with a sudden serious sweetness "but nobody could ever count my love for you". - O. Henry

If man knew how women pass the time when they are alone, they’d never marry.

He wrote love stories, a thing I have always kept free from, holding the belief that the well-known and popular sentiment is not properly matter for publication, but something to be privately handled by the alienist and the florist.

The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey.