He knew her too well to see her from the distance that pity requires. He loved her because he admired her. For bearing without complaint the burden the queen put on her. For still being gentle and loving when she had ample reason to be bitter.

Instead of thinking, “I wonder if she’ll like me,” think, “I wonder what she’s like?

I suspect I only really liked her because she liked me first.

“So…d’you like him? Or not?”
Like was surely not an adequate word for this hash of delight and anger and longing, this profound respect laced with profound irritation, all floating on a dark pool of old pain. The past and the future, at war in her head. “I don’t know. Some of the time I do, yes, very much.”
Another long pause. “Are you in love with him?”
What Nikki knew of adult love, he’d mostly garnered off the holovid. Part of her mind readily translated this question as code for, Which way are you going to jump, and what will happen to me? And yet…he could not share or even imagine the complexity of her romantic hopes and fears, but he certainly knew how such stories were supposed to Come Out Right.
“I don’t know. Some of the time. I think.”
He favored her with his Big People Are Crazy look. In all, she could only agree.

I’m not so sure which is better. But she either likes or loves me. And that’s nice.

He liked her; it was as simple as that.

"I sometimes used to ask myself, what on earth did I love her for? Maybe fore the warm hazel iris of her fluffy eyes, or for the natural side-wave of her brown hair, done anyhow, or again for that movement of her plump shoulders. But, probably the truth was that I loved her because she loved me. To her I was the ideal man: brains, pluck. And there was none dressed better. I remember once, when I first put on that new dinner jacket, with the vast trousers, she clapsed her hands, sank down on a chair and murmured: 'Oh, Hermann...." It was ravishment bordering upon something like heavenly woe.

Mr Touchett used to think that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak – so many characteristics of her niece – that he had fallen in love with Mrs Touchett.

The Karg looked at her with the interested expression of a coroner who sees his customer twitch.

"He was looking at her, but in a distracted manner, as if she was something to look at while he waited for something else.”(Page 15)

Did he like elms? Did he know Joyce’s
poem about the two washerwomen? He did, indeed. Did he like
it? He did. In fact he was beginning to like very much arbors
and ardors and Adas

If a woman likes another woman, she's cordial. If she doesn't like her, she's very cordial.

"Jane: "St John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue eyes and a Grecian profile."

Rochester:(Aside) "Damn him!" (To me) "Did you like him, Jane?

Wharton was captivated by her sweet face, and tried to make her understand his theory that the merit of a painting was not so much in what it explained as in what it suggested.