Neither Birth Nor Sex Forms A Limit

You — You Strange — You Almost Unearthly Thing! — I Love As My Own Flesh. You — Poor And Obscure, And Small And Plain As You Are — I Entreat To Accept Me As A Husband.

Am I Hideous, Jane? Very, Sir: You Always Were, You Know.

Everyone Else Is Just Cocktails.

You, Jane, I Must Have You For My Own--entirely My Own.

No Mockery In This World Ever Sounds To Me So Hollow As That Of Being Told To Cultivate Happiness. What Does Such Advice Mean? Happiness Is Not A Potato, To Be Planted In Mould, And Tilled With Manure.