She wasn't in love but she would love him, if that would save her.

She saw nothing of Winterborne during he days of her recovery: and perhaps on that account her fancy wove about him a more romantic tissue than it could have done if he had stood before her with all the specks and flaws inseparable from concrete humanity

She loved him so much she concealed his name in many phrases, the inner meanings known only to her.

She had seen no one who had so touched her. But she was alive to the romance of the thing, and was in love with the idea of being in love.

I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.

She had tried to love him.

There was a time. She could never see him and her fault was to always need him.

She often wondered indeed if she ever had been, or ever could be, intimate with anyone.

Remember, they've never seen you before in their life.

I don't think she ever knew that a deep-brooding love hung over everything she touched.

he began to feel that she was very lonely indeed. “If he’d been here,” she said, “those cowards would never have dared to insult me.” She thought about “him” with great sadness and perhaps longing — about his honest, stupid, constant kindness and fidelity; his never-ceasing obedience; his good humour; his bravery and courage. Very likely she cried, for she was particularly lively, and had put on a little extra rouge, when she came down to dinner.

It simply did not occur to her that she had hurt him as deeply as she had, because she still thought of herself as an ordinary woman, and him as an extraordinary man.

There's someone who's loved you forever but you don't know it. You might feel it and just not show it.

She feared the days, one after another, without surprises, of pure devotion to a man. To a man who would freely use of all of his wife’s forces for his own bonfire, in a serene, unconscious sacrifice of everything that wasn’t his own personality. (p80)