Weep all the artful tears you like. You shall never make my hard heart the softer.

I never expected my books to do even as well as they have. I still feel grateful for it, every single day.

I suppose I really seemed mad, then; but it was only through the awfulness of having said nothing but the truth, and being thought to be deluded.

There is no patience so terrible as that of the deranged.

It was heavy, and I staggered when I lifted it; but it was strangely satifying to have a real burden upon my shoulders – a kind of counterweight to my terrible heaviness of heart.

Your heart-as you call it-and hers are alike, after all: they are like mine, like everyone's. They resemble nothing so much as those meters you will find on gas-pipes: they only perk up and start pumping when you drop coins in.

Your twisting is done--you have the last thread of my heart. I wonder: when the thread grows slack, will you feel it?