There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire; it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.

I shall never love anybody. I can't love people. I hate them.' 'The time will come, dear, the time will come.

Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral.

Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.

For what is love itself, for the one we love best? An enfolding of immeasurable cares which yet are better than any joys outside our love.

It was not that she was out of temper, but that the world was not equal to the demands of her fine organism.

The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but never precisely in the way we have imagined to ourselves.