For love is like a tree; it grows of itself; it send its roots deep into our being, and often continues to grow green over a heart in ruins.

“les plus belles années d'une vie sont celles que l'on a pas encore vécues.”

“The world of sleep has an existence of its own.”

“She was a lovely blonde, with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her dowry…”

“Quasimodo then lifted his eye to look upon the gypsy girl, whose body, suspende…”