There could have never been two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.
Almost anything is possible with time
I have not the pleasure of understanding you.
What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken!
To love is to burn, to be on fire.
Everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters.