He lacked tenderness; he was rude; and he had more than a streak of cruelty in him; he was a thief and a liar. He stood for everything she feared and hated and despised; but she knew she could love him... This was no choice made with the mind.

It wouldn't make for sanity would it, living with the devil.

All autobiography is self-indulgent.

She had to live in this bright, red gabled house with the nurse until it was time for her to die... I thought how little we know about the feelings of old people. Children we understand, their fears and hopes and make-believe.

If there’s one thing that makes a man sick, it’s to have his ale poured out of an ugly hand.

And I don't like books which are full of name dropping.

How lacking in intuition men could be in persuading themselves that mending some stranger's socks, and attending to his comfort, could content a woman.