She had to take from him again, on this, one of his long looks, and she took it to its deepest, its headiest dregs.
I cling to some saving romance in things.
There seemed to Isabel in these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the past was more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of the months she had spent there the tears rose to her eyes.
The days, whether lapsing or lingering, were a stiff reality; the suppression of anxiety was a thin idea; the taste of life itself was the taste of suspense.
There were complications, there were questions; but they were so much more together than they were anything else.
It’s you who draw me out. I exist in you. Not in others.
Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it’s just like a novel!
The end of everything was at hand; it seemed to him he could stretch out his arm and touch the goal. But he wanted to die at home – to extend himself in the large quiet room where he had last seen his father lie, and close his eyes upon the summer dawn.
I like places in which things have happened – even if they’re sad things.
There was an element of dull rage in his consciousness of things.
He felt the old bitterness, which he had tried so hard to swallow, rise again in his throat, and he knew there are disappointments that last as long as life.
It’s her general air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make her acquaintance?
Now that he was alone with her all the passion he had never stifled surged into his senses; it hummed in his eyes and made things swim round him.
But the sense that it was his last chance, that he loved her and had lost her, that she would think him a fool whatever he should say, suddenly gave him a lash and added a deep vibration to his low voice.
He saw her try, for a time, to appear to consider it; but he saw her also not consider it.
When I tell you I love you it’s simply what I came for. I thought it was for something else; but it was for that. I shouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe I should never see you again. It’s the last time – let me pluck a single flower! I’ve no right to say that, I know; and you’ve no right to listen. But you don’t listen; you never listen, you’re always thinking of something else.
You look upset – you’ve certainly been tormented. You’re not well.
He had never supposed she hadn’t wings and the need of beautiful free movements.
Yes, you’ve something to hide. It’s none of my business – very true. But I love you,” said Caspar Goodwood.
That’s the least part of it – after it nothing will matter.