The Romantic Egoists

She wanted her life shaped now, immediately.

Was she sincerely moved—or was she carried along by the wave of her own acting?

If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.

I do love you, never anybody like you. But what have you got for me?

I loved you once—for a year I thought you were the only person in the world. Why do I have to lose that? Why do I have to deny it or belittle it? It was there—it was me.

Sometimes you think you’re so much in love that your love could fill the biggest palace conceivable. Sometimes you haven’t got enough to fill one room.

They were young and gravely passionate; they demanded everything and then yielded everything again in ecstasies of unselfishness and pride.

“I can love what it once was. What else is there for me to do?”

It’s not life that counts, it’s the quaintness you bring to it.

Her body, so frail and tender, was touching mine, her face was turned up to me, and there, suddenly, I could have kissed her at last.

I’m sorry I had such a devastating effect on you.

He kissed her lips gently. 'That’ll do,' he said.

She didn’t know whether this was love or not but she knew with all her heart and soul that she wanted to crawl into his pocket and be safe forever.

And a love letter should come like a fresh stream from the heart, with no leaf on its current.

I’m a lost soul maybe—I don’t feel at all like I ought to feel.

You’re beautiful," he whispers involuntarily.