It's a strange thing to discover and to believe that you are loved when you know that there is nothing in you for anybody but a parent or a God to love.

Politics, war, marriage, crime, adultery. Everything that exists in the world has something to do with money.

I never knew a man who had better motives for all the trouble he caused.

Her face looked ugly in the attempt to avoid tears; it was an ugliness which bound him to her more than any beauty could have done. It isn't being happy together, he thought as though it were a fresh discovery, that makes one love--it's being unhappy together.

We are all of us resigned to death: it's life we aren't resigned to.

I couldn't help wondering, is my husband so unattractive that no woman has ever wanted him? Except me, of course. I must have wanted him, in a way, once, but I've forgotten why, and I was too young to know what I was choosing.

That instinct for human character that is perhaps inherent in an imaginative writer.