[...] era un viso indimenticabile, un viso tragico. Sgorgava dolore con la stessa purezza, naturalezza e inarrestabilità con cui sgorga l'acqua da una sorgente nei boschi. Non c'era artificio in esso, né ipocrisia, né isterismo, né maschera; soprattutto non c'era la minima traccia di pazzia. La pazzia era nel mare vuoto, nel vuoto orizzonte, [...]; come se la sorgente fosse stata naturale in sé ma innaturale in quanto sgorgava da un deserto.

Marriage for love is the beautifulest external symbol of the union of souls, marriage without it is the uncleanliest traffic that defiles the world.

Poor thing, consigned to a life of frivolousness and wretched things for breakfast. Not allowed to go to school or do anything worthwhile, and eel pie besides.

The man’s hands had a terrible unsettling power over her. He didn’t brush or lightly graze her skin. He stroked her, caressed her, as if he wished to give her pleasure rather than take his own.

All our lives, we long, we long, thinking it is the moon we long for. So how, when we meet it in the shape of a most fair woman, can we do less than leave all others for her?

Our little systems have their day They have their day and cease to be They are but broken lights of TheeAnd Thou, O L-rd, art more than theyWe have but faith, we cannot knowFor knowledge is of things we seeAnd yet we trust it comes from TheeA beam in darkness: let it growLet knowledge grow from more to moreBut more of reverence in us dwellThat mind and soul, according wellMay make one music as before

To adorn her in somebody else’s eyes; never again in mine.

[...] we got up and walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in the old days before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can't go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn't know anybody who saw us - and we didn't care if they did - so on we walked.

However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.

The repetitive drone of the shanty music and raucous banter had stopped dead. All eyes were upon them. ‘Carry on, boys—don’t let me spoil yer merriment,’ Brady called, rolling his hand around in a barrel-organ gesture. Then, just like an engine, the whole commotion rumbled up to steam again, the fiddler’s elbow sawing away, concertina pumping and spoons clacking, but no one sang...