His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed —that voice was a deathless song.

That's the whole burden of this novel - the loss of those illusions that give such color to the world that you don't care whether things are true or false as long as they partake of the magical glory.

The rich are different from us.

A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about.

Life cracked like ice!

A great social success is a pretty girl who plays her cards as carefully as if she were plain.

Americans, while occasionally willing to be serfs, have always been obstinate about being peasantry.