Yes, one has read; but this is beyond any book.

He had brought home to her, and always by remarks that were really quite soundless, the conception, hitherto ungrapsed, of some complete use of her wealth itself, some use of it as a counter-move to fate.

There was a sort of spell in the sense that nobody in the world knew where she was. It was the first time in her life that this had happened; somebody, everybody appeared to have known before, at every instant of it, where she was; so that she was now suddenly able to put it to herself that that hadn't been a life.

It's you who draw me out. I exist in you. Not in others.

His long looks were the thing in the world she could never have enough of. What she felt was that, whatever might happen, she must keep them, must make them most completely her possession.

Life might prove difficult—was evidently going to; but meanwhile they had each other, and that was everything.

She had to take from him again, on this, one of his long looks, and she took it to its deepest, its headiest dregs.

I cling to some saving romance in things.

There were complications, there were questions; but they were so much more together than they were anything else.