The heart that can no longer love passionately must with fury hate.
She wavers, she hesitates; in one word — she is a woman.
Sir, that much prudence calls for too much worry; I cannot foresee misfortunes so far away.
If I could believe that this was said sincerely, I could put up with anything.
Love is not a fire to be shut up in a soul. Everything betrays us: voice, silence, eyes; half-covered fires burn all the brighter.
The quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love.