I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable; their likeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love; I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me.

Charlotte Brontë (1816-1855) British novelist [pseud. Currer Bell]
Villette, ch. 24 “Monsieur’s Fête” (1853)
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Added on 16-Jun-17 | Last updated 16-Jun-17
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