Death is the king of this world: Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet. – George Eliot
Our impartiality is kept for abstract merit and demerit, which none of us ever saw. – George Eliot
Death is the king of this world: Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet. – George Eliot
Our impartiality is kept for abstract merit and demerit, which none of us ever saw. – George Eliot
All the learnin my father paid for was a bit o birch at one end and an alphabet at the other. – George Eliot