I would prefer not to throw myself on a funeral pyre. Please come back to me.

Piers looked up at him. 'You're new. What's your name?' 'Neythen, my lord.' 'Sounds like a terrible illness. No, more like a bowel problem. I'm sorry, Lord Sandys, your son has contracted neythen and won't live a month. No, no, there's nothing I can do. Sandys would have preferred hearing that to syphilis.

I love you," he said, his voice catching. "When I thought you were going to die, I wanted to die.

In case there is any question in your mind," he said, cupping her face with his hands. "What I want, what I most desire, the loveliest sight on this dark earth, is you.

If you throw me out of this house, I shall sleep on the path outside. If you return to the Continent without me, I shall follow you. I will build a willow hut at your gate; I will sleep under your window; I will be waiting for you at your own front door.

I would prefer not to throw myself on a funeral pyre. Please come back to me.

You don't know how easy death is. It's - it's like a door. A person simply walks through it, and she's lost to you forever.