To love, for us men, is to clasp one woman with our arms, feeling that she lives and breathes just as we do, suffers as we do, thinks with us, loves with us, and, above all, sins with us.

She, too, had worn a mask in assuming a contempt for him, whilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood him

Sink me! Your taylors have betrayed you! T'wood serve you better to send THEM to Madam Guillotine

...but in every century, and ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy.

Thus human beings judge of one another, superficially, casually, throwing contempt on one another, with but little reason, and no charity.

We must prove to the world that we are all nincompoops

Now, when their glances met, they understood one another. The power that lay within both their souls had met, and, as it were, clasped hands. They accepted one another's sacrifice. Hers, mayhap, was the more complete of the two, because for her his absence would mean weary waiting, the dull heartache so terrible to bear.