Hers Quotes (page 214)
He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her affection appear of greater consequence, because it was witheld, and determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity of forcing her to love him.
Jane Austen
A little girl came home from school with a drawing she'd made in class. She danced into the kitchen , where her mother was preparing dinner."Mom, guess what ?" she squealed waving the drawing . her mother never looked up."what"? she said , tending to the pots."guess what?" the child repeated , waving the drawings."what?" the mother said , tending to the plates."Mom, you're not listening"sweetie, yes I am"Mom" the child said "you're not listening with your EYES
Mitch Albom
Although she failed to grasp the meaning of this speech, she did understand that it might belong to the category of 'scoldings' and scenes of reproach or supplication, and her familiarity with men enabled her, without paying attention to the details of what they said, to conclude that they would not makes such scenes if they were not in love, that since they were in love it was pointless to obey them, they they would be only more in love afterward.
Marcel Proust
You think he is marrying her for money?'
'Yes, I do. Don't you think so?'
'I should say quite certainly,' said Miss Marple. 'Like young Ellis who married Marion Bates, the rich ironmonger's daughter. She was a very plain girl and absolutely besotted about him. However, it turned out quite well. People like young Ellis and this Gerald Wright are only really disagreeable when they've married a poor girl for love. They are so annoyed with themselves for doing it that they take it out of the...
Agatha Christie
It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul; never to be content quite, or quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred...
Virginia Woolf