Fleming was simply a poor
farmer

Win you--temperately, let us hope; by
storm, if need be

Winds of panic are violently engaged in
occupying the vacuum

Wins everywhere back a reflection of
its own kindliness

Winter mornings are divine. They move
on noiselessly

Wise in not seeking to be too wise

With that I sail into the dark

With good wine to wash it down, one can
swallow anything

With what little wisdom the world is
governed

With death; we'd rather not, because of
a qualm

With one idea, we see nothing--nothing
but itself

With a frozen fish of admirable
principles for wife

With this money, said the demon, you
might speculate

With a proud humility

Withdrew into the entrenchments of
contempt

Without a single intimation that he
loathed the task

Without those consolatory efforts,
useless between men

Wits, which are ordinarily less
productive than land

Wives are only an item in the list, and
not the most important

Woman descending from her ideal to the
gross reality of man

Woman will be the last thing civilized
by Man

Woman finds herself on board a
rudderless vessel

Woman's precious word No at the
sentinel's post, and alert

Women are wonderfully quick scholars
under ridicule

Women with brains, moreover, are all
heartless

Women are taken to be the second
thoughts of the Creator

Women don't care uncommonly for the men
who love them

Women must not be judging things out of
their sphere

Women and men are in two hostile camps

Women treat men as their tamed
housemates

Women are swift at coming to
conclusions in these matters

Women are happier enslaved

Won't do to be taking in reefs on a
lee-shore

Wonderment that one of her sex should
have ideas

Wooing her with dog's eyes instead of
words

Wooing a good man for his friendship

Work of extravagance upon perceptibly
plain matter

Work is medicine

World cannot pardon a breach of
continuity

World against us It will not keep us
from trying to serve

World is ruthless, dear friends,
because the world is hypocrite

World prefers decorum to honesty

World voluntarily opens a path to those
who step determinedly

Would like to feel he was doing a bit
of good

Would he see what he aims at? let him
ask his heels

Wrapped in the comfort of his cowardice

Writer society delights in, to show
what it is composed of

Yawns coming alarmingly fast, in the
place of idea