We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May; yet the grass is green when the flower fades away. – R. Southwell
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Your mock saint who stands in a niche is not a woman if she have not suffered, still less a woman if she have not sinned. Fall at the feet of your idol as you wish, but drag her down to your level after that — the only level she should ever reach, that of your heart. – Baroness Emmuska Orczy
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