How people will talk about one’s doings!” Fancy exclaimed. “Well, if you make songs about yourself, my dear, you can’t blame other people for singin… - Thomas Hardy

When that half-burnt log and those cinders were alight she was alive! Little has been changed here yet. I can do nothing. My life creeps like a snail.

Love is an utterly bygone, sorry, worn-out, miserable thing with me- for him or anyone else.

So the baby was carried in a small deal box, under an ancient woman's shawl, to the churchyard that night, and buried by lantern-light, at the cost of a shilling and a pint of beer to the sexton, in that shabby corner of God's allotment where He lets the nettles grow, and where all unbaptized infants, notorious drunkards, suicides, and others of the conjecturally damned are laid.