Here was a new lesson for her, then: it was possible to behave like an utter goose in front of a man, and then to take his arm again and stroll companionably onward, without feeling any awkwardness.

Perhaps he was never himself but with her. Or rather, with her, he was more than himself.

It was no small talent to know how to immerse oneself in mundane pleasures. It had been a very long time since he’d experienced the feeling that he saw on her face. Curious to consider that he might have something to learn from her. Years, perhaps, since he’d found a novelty able to keep all his senses occupied. Perhaps she was such a novelty in herself.

With so many willing, complex women in the world, he had little respect for men who fixated on girlishness. Innocence was, by definition, an absence of experience – character – knowledge. To desire that absence seemed rather deviant.

I will not endure a wife who tells me to go back to a mistress. I will not have a wife who refuses to demand explanations.

He sneers so regularly that I suspect he shaves his mustache only to spare his nose the whisker burn.

Now, when he sat at the piano, he did not play music for the company the notes provided him. He played the music so she might hear it, and come a little closer to him as she listened.

You don’t beg for anyone. For it never comes to good. Nothing’s worth that price. And I don’t mean the price is honor or pride. I mean, it’s got to do with knowing your own worth.

Prepare for the worst, and pursue the fun: this was her philosophy.

After a moment, he murmured, “Emmaline. I am sorry. I am... overwrought.” His laughter was unsteady. “And there’s a phrase I’ve never used before. At least not in reference to myself.” An unwilling smile curved her mouth. “I hope you won’t swoon. I don’t carry smelling salts.” “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t have imagined you did.