It seemed to her such nonsense-inventing differences, when people, heaven knows, were different enough without that.

I do not want to be admired. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions.

If woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man; some think even greater.

It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they became one; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tenderness thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself.

She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.

You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.

In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.