Ross Poldark (Poldark, #1)

by Winston Graham

she’s like a westerly breeze at sunrise, rare and fresh, and good to get into your lungs and your heart.

there were other women in the world, common clay perhaps, but charming enough with their pretty ways and soft bodies.

For another ha’penny she offered to take you behind a screen and put your hand on a soft spot, but the man next to him said it was once bitten twice shy, because all she did was put your hand on your own forehead.

All men were born in the same way: no privilege existed that was not of man’s own contriving.

She was a little girl with all the appeal of a woman. Beautiful and fragile and composed, a married woman. A black desire rose in him to smash the composure.

In lust there is always conquest and destruction.