She was a mischief, and that was a satisfaction; no longer was she a huntress of corralled game

No such thing as a man willing to be honest - that would be like a blind man willing to see.

But you can love more than just one person, can't you?

When I'm with you, I don't breathe quite right.

I'm one of those people who go through the world giving other people thrills, but getting few myself except those I read into men on such nights as these. I have the social courage to go on the stage, but not the energy; I haven't the patience to write books; and I never met a man I'd marry. However, I'm only eighteen.

Her fine high forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet and shining, the colour of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood -- she was almost eighteen, nearly complete, but the dew was still on her.

Her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez faire for others.