Mary Roberts Rinehart

Her eyes filled. "He forgot my birthday, two weeks ago," she said. "It was the first one he had ever forgotten, in nineteen of them." Nineteen! Nineteen from thirty-five leaves sixteen!

In my criminal work anything that wears skirts is a lady, until the law proves her otherwise. From the frayed and slovenly petticoats of the woman who owns a poultry stand in the market and who has grown wealthy by selling chickens at twelve ounces to the pound, or the silk sweep of Mamie Tracy, whose diamonds have been stolen down on the avenue...

War is not two great armies meeting in the clash and frenzy of battle. War is a boy being carried on a stretcher, looking up at God__ blue sky with bewildered eyes that are soon to close; war is a woman carrying a child that has been injured by a shell; war is spirited horses tied in burning buildings and waiting for death; war is the flower of a race, battered, hungry, bleeding, up to its knees in filthy water; war is an old woman burning a candle before the Mater Dolorsa for the son she has given.

I never saw a lawyer yet who would admit he was making money.

The world doesn't come to the clever folks it comes to the stubborn obstinate one-idea-at-a-time people.

Love is like the measles. The older you get it the worse the attack.

To be kind to all to like many and love a few to be needed and wanted by those we love is certainly the nearest we can come to happiness.