[A]ll these years, I had been telling myself that my feelings for you were a juvenile infatuation; a dream inspired by my secret hope that somewhere there could be a creature who could love me.

I’m an idiot for trying to avoid these feelings because they have caused me pain in the past.

Most of my money remains in England, although my unworthy carcass may not under usual circumstances ...

I’m not God, and I can’t always offer chances. I’m not sure if this won’t be your last.

Low and behold what comes of reading too many romance novels.