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“There’s no such thing as an old maid.” “Wh-what would you call a middle-aged lady who’s never married?” “A woman with standards?” West suggested.
“You know I’ve never been one of those sentimental fellows.” “You mean the ones with actual human emotions?” West asked acidly. “I have emotions.” Tom paused. “When I want to.”
“But life is what novels are about. A novel can contain more truth than a thousand newspaper articles or scientific papers. It can make you imagine, just for a little while, that you’re someone else—and then you understand more about people who are different from you.”
“Haven’t you ever liked someone or something right away, without knowing exactly why, but feeling sure you would discover the reasons later?”
“I hope your dream comes true, my lady. But if it doesn’t, I could offer you some very satisfying substitutes.” “Not if your heart is frozen,” Cassandra said. Mr. Severin grinned at that, and made no reply. But as they neared the last step, she heard his reflective, almost puzzled murmur. “Actually . . . I think it just thawed a little.”
“Severin,” he said carefully, “two years ago, I had the incredible arrogance to offer Helen’s hand in marriage to Rhys Winterborne as if she were an hors d’oeuvre on a tray.” “Yes, I know. May I have one too?”
“What does love guarantee?” Severin scoffed. “How many cruelties have been committed in the name of love? For centuries, women have been abused and betrayed by the men who profess to love them. If you ask me, a woman would benefit far more from a diversified investment portfolio than love.”
“Damn it. That makes six.” “Six what?” Devon asked in bewilderment. “Feelings. I’ve never had more than five feelings, and they’re hard enough to manage as it is. I’ll be damned if I’ll add another.”
“There’s nothing wrong about not knowing something. The stupid people are the ones who think they know everything.”
Men who make history rarely make good husbands.”
Justin looked up at the tall man beside him with a flicker of uncertainty. “I can call you Dad . . . can’t I? Do you like that name?” A change came over West’s face, his color deepening, small muscles contorting with some powerful emotion. He snatched Justin up, one of his large hands clasping the small head as he kissed his cheek. “I love that name,” West said unsteadily. “I love it.” The boy’s arms went around his neck.
“Can we go to Africa for our honeymoon, Dad?” he heard Justin ask. “Yes,” came West’s muffled voice. “Can I have a pet crocodile, Dad?” “Yes.”
I think you should read Persuasion to find out what you might have in common with Captain Wentworth.” “Probably not much,” Tom said, “since I exist and he doesn’t.”
“According to basic geometry, one kiss could change your life.”
Unable to resolve the paradox on his own, Tom decided to consult the known authority on such matters: Jane Austen.
Maybe if he read enough novels about the problems of fictional people, he might find some clue about how to solve his own.
“Your heart is frozen because you want it to be. It’s safer for you that way, never to let anyone in. So be it.”
“If you felt pain, I wanted to share it with you. That’s what sisters do.”
“We’ll start by killing Lord Lambert!” Pandora had cried, storming back and forth. “In the longest, most painful way possible. We’ll take him apart bit by bit. I’m going to murder him with tweezers.”
“You bought an entire newspaper business . . . for my sake?” Tom thought for a long moment before answering. Now his voice was different than she’d ever heard it, quiet and even a little shaken. “There are no limits to what I would do for you.”
“Shall I kill him for you?” Tom asked, sounding alarmingly sincere.
“Marry me, Cassandra—and we’ll tell them all to go to hell.”
“You’re trying to appear as harmless as a lamb. But we both know you’re not.” “I have lamblike moments,” Tom said. At her dubious glance, he insisted, “I’m having one right now. I’m one hundred percent lamb.”
“Also . . .” he added meaningfully, “. . . unlimited shoes.”
“Love is the worst thing that can happen to people in novels,” Tom protested. “What good did Heathcliff and all his passionate foaming at the mouth do for Cathy? Look at Sydney Carton—if he’d loved Lucie just a little less, he would have waited until her husband was guillotined, married her himself, and carried on with his successful law practice. But no, he did the noble thing, because love made him stupid. And then there’s Jane Eyre, an otherwise sensible woman so dazzled by lovemaking, she didn’t happen to notice the scurrying of an arsonous madwoman overhead. There would be far more happy
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“Your body isn’t an ornament designed for other people’s pleasure. It belongs to you alone. You’re magnificent just as you are. Whether you lose weight or gain more, you’ll still be magnificent. Have a cake if you want one.”
It took Victor Hugo fourteen hundred pages to say, ‘Never let your daughter marry a radical French law student.’ Which everyone already knows.”
“He’s always had it,” he said flatly. “That thing women like.” “What thing?” Devon asked. “The secret, mysterious thing I’ve always wished someone would explain so we could pretend to have it too.”
“Has Severin told you he has only five feelings?” West asked sardonically. “He told me. But recently he’s been forced to add a few, which I find encouraging.”
Nothing has been exciting or satisfying for years. With you, though, everything is new. All I want is to be with you.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself for sending him away. Honoring one’s parents doesn’t mean you have to let them tear you apart over and over. You can honor them from a distance, by trying to be ‘a light unto the world.’”
Let him be part of the family, and treat him with the affection and respect he deserves.” “What makes you think he deserves it?” Tom asked curtly. “Because you did,” she said quietly, letting go of him. “Every child does.”
“You’re not supposed to be on the bed,” he told the puppy. “It’s contractually prohibited.”
