"A man is lucky if he is the first love of a woman. A woman is lucky if she is the last love of a man."
"Then, at the end of every hand, Miss Bolo would inquire with a dismal countenance and reproachful sigh, why Mr. Pickwick had not returned that diamond, or led the club, or roughed the spade, or finessed the heart, or led through the honour, or brought out the ace, or played up to the king, or some such thing; and in reply to all these grave charges, Mr. Pickwick would be wholly unable to plead any justification whatever, having by this time forgotten all about the game."
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Source: Charles Dickens (1870). “The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club”, p.312
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