But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.

A big man has no time really to do anything but just sit and be big.

The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised.

The past--the wild charge at the head of his men up San Juan Hill; the first years of his marriage when he worked late into the summer dusk down in the busy city for young Hildegarde whom he loved; the days before that when he sat smoking far into the night in the gloomy old Button house on Monroe Street with his grandfather-all these had faded like unsubstantial dreams from his mind as though they had never been. He did not remember.

If you're in love it ought to make you happy. You ought to laugh.

You are mysterious, I love you. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and virtuous, and that’s the rarest known combination.