To do him any wrong was to beget a kindness from him, for his heart was rich - of such fine mould that if you sowed therein the seed of hate, it blossomed charity.
We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.
Who loves not a false imagining, an unreal character in us; but looking through all the rubbish of our imperfections, loves in us the divine ideal of our natures - not the man that we are, but the angel that we may be.
Love is the only gold.