"She leaned forward and caught at his hand, pressing it between her own. The touch was like white fire through his veins. He could not feel her skin only the cloth of her gloves, and yet it did not matter. You kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire. He had wondered once why love was always phrased in terms of burning. The conflagration in his own veins, now, gave the answer."
"Life is a book and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read."
"Oh, what is brighter than the light?What is darker than the night?What is keener than an axe?What is softer than melting wax?Truth is brighter than the light,Falsehood darker than the night.Revenge is keener than an axe,And love is softer than melting wax."
"Men may be stronger, but it is women who endure."
"You know that feeling,” she said, “when you are reading a book, and you know that it is going to be a tragedy; you can feel the cold and darkness coming, see the net drawing tight around the characters who live and breathe on the pages. But you are tied to the story as if being dragged behind a carriage and you cannot let go or turn the course aside."
"No one can say that death found in me a willing comrade, or that I went easily."