So there’s an . . . an etiquette to raking. Some seducer’s code of honor. Is this what you’re telling me?

What is the world coming to, with these modern women? A man can't tell them what to do.

After spending all of her girlhood fervently wishing she could run away from home— she’d actually done it.

I have to go," he said. "You don't understand. Someone wants to kill me. "Someone wants to kill you?" she repeated. "Well, I want to make love to you. My goodness, Julian. With two such compelling alternatives, however will you choose?

She would allow him to comfort her. And perhaps, someday, she would listen patiently if a dark, dreary night found him well in his cups and he drunkenly confessed to still feeling scores of wounds that weren’t his own, but those of men under his command.

She couldn't "heal" him. No woman could. Events that far in the past just couldn't be undone. But perhaps he didn't need a cure, but . . . a lens. Someone who accepted him for the imperfect person he was, and then helped him to see the world clear. Like spectacles did for her.

Cleverness is like rouge - liberal application makes a woman look common and desperate. Wit is knowing how to apply it.