She found herself longing for home-not just for the hotel but for New York and all the real novels that she could lose herself in there.

It is well known that a man, when wooing a lady to be his wife, must first win over the females she most confides in—her friends, of course, and her sister, if she has one.

She was like a heroine in a novel that she herself was writing the character kept protesting that she was too strong for love and yet the narrator went on describing her desire.

She felt so much aware of her own beauty it seemed inconceivable that everybody else wouldn't notice the difference too.

The headiest loves were the loves that couldn't be.

Diana felt she was beginning to understand why, in all those novels she read, the headiest loves were the loves that couldn't be.

It had been an awful thing to lose Henry the first time, to matrimony, but to discover what a false front he was capable of was another kind of blow, and it had left her almost speechless. Then there was the fury with herself—for she had known what Henry’s love was, and still she had gone back to suffer a little more at his hands.