“A sort of sigh. My fit’s over. Carlo’s marriage is too surprising and delicious. I shall be laughing presently. I hinted at his marriage— I thought it among the list of possible things, no more—to see if that crystal pool, called Violetta d’Isorella, could be discoloured by stirring. Did you watch her face? I don’t know what she wanted with Carlo, for she’s cold as poison—a female trifler; one of those women whom I, and I have a chaste body, despise as worse than wantons; but she certainly did not want him to be married. It seems like a victory— though we’re beaten. You have beaten us, my dear!”
“My darling! it is your husband kisses you,” said Amalia, kissing Laura’s forehead from a full heart.
But is there such a thing as happiness
Conduct is never a straight index where the heart’s involved
Deep as a mother’s, pure as a virgin’s, fiery as a saint’s
Foolish trick of thinking for herself
Fortitude leaned so much upon the irony
Grand air of pitying sadness
Longing for love and dependence
Love of men and women as a toy that I have played with
Pain is a cloak that wraps you about
She was sick of personal freedom
Watch, and wait
Went into endless invalid’s laughter
Why should these men take so much killing?
You can master pain, but not doubt