... I since cricket match do long to talk with one of my arms around you, then place both arms round you and share with you, the above now seems sweeter to me than words can say.

How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself—hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth—their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air.

Preachers or scientists may generalize, but we know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion.

Love was an emotion through which you occasionally enjoyed yourself. It could not do things.

And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind -- the knowledge that they could never be parted because their love was rooted in common things.

She and the victim seemed alone in a world of unreality, and she loved him absolutely, perhaps for half an hour.

When I think of what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love; it is one of the moments for which the world was made.

Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart.

A happy ending was imperative