The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.

There is much good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. We are children, playing or quarrelling on the line.

Our final experience, like our first, is conjectural. We move between two darkness's.

Though life is very glorious, it is difficult.

One person with passion is better than forty people merely interested.

We may divide characters into flat and round.

When we were only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but now you're always protecting me... I won't be protected. I will choose for myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult. Can't I be trusted to face the truth but I must get it second-hand through you? A woman's place!