The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.

He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to loved or hated again.

If I could I would always work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be known by their results.

I cannot express it: but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is, or should be, an existence of yours beyond you.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire

Nonsense, do you imagine he has thought as much of you as you have of him?

Thoughts are tyrants that return again and again to torment us.