There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow.

Life is made up of compromises.

Everything about her was warm and soft and scented; even the stains of her grief became her as raindrops do the beaten rose.

Their long years together had shown him that it did not so much matter if marriage was a dull duty, as long as it kept the dignity of duty: lapsing from that, it became a mere battle of ugly appetites.

[I]t's safer to be fond of dangerous people.

What Lily craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath.

What's the use of making mysteries? It only makes people want to nose 'em out.