A novel is an impression, not an argument; and there the matter must rest.

Never in her life – she could swear it from the bottom of her soul – had she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgments had come. Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently?

That it would always be summer and autumn, and you always courting me, and always thinking as much of me as you have done through the past summertime!

Their position was perhaps the happiest of all positions in the social scale, being above the line at which neediness ends, and below the line at which the convenances begin to cramp natural feeling, and the stress of threadbare modishness makes too little of enough.

Remember that the best and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted fail.

Indifference to fate which, though it often makes a villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity when it does not.

There's a friendly tie of some sort between music and eating.