We always find it difficult to forgive our heroes for being human.

If you want someone to tell you what to think," the phantom answered briskly, without looking up, "you will never be short of people willing to do so." . . . "Come now," he said at last, "you can hardly claim that I have left you ignorant. I taught you to read, did I not?

I'm never telling the truth again! It gets you hanged and locked out and starved and froze and hated . . .

Sometimes fear made you angry. Perhaps after years anger cooled, like a sword taken from a forge. Perhaps in the end you were left with something very cold and very sharp.

The world is like a broken wrist that healed the wrong way, and will never be the same again.

Oh, painted smirk of a hopeless dawn, the girl is still wearing her breeches.

Push something in someone’s face, and they will shove it away reflexively. Threaten to snatch it away from them, and sometimes they become convinced that it is what they want.