You see, people forget you.
I love you. It’s because I love you that I’m here.
Well, if you love me intensely let me as intensely alone.
I love you as I’ve never loved you.
She had not yet divested herself of a young faith that each new acquaintance would exert some momentous influence on her life.
Ah yes, there had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to herself; and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream.
Don’t fail me. It would kill me.
She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for a strange truth was filtering into her soul.
There was something deep within him that he had absolutely shown to no one – to the companion of these walks in particular not a bit more than he could help; but he was none the less haunted, under its shadow, with a dire apprehension of its publicity.
We must feel everything, everything we can. We are here for that.
The great thing is to love something.
She was all too sunk in the inevitable, and the abysmal.
It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind than most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was tinged with the unfamiliar.
For it was of no use, she had an unquenchable desire to think well of herself.
Don’t people always feel better just before the end?
She was too young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain.
A great many people give me the impression of never having for a moment felt anything.
With all her love of knowledge she had a natural shrinking from raising curtains and looking into unlighted corners.
She longed for opportunities, but these were not the opportunities she meant.
The old-world quality in everything that she now saw had all the charm of strangeness.