It is not necessarily poverty of spirit that makes a woman surround herself with life — it can be a superabundance of interest... - F. Scott Fitzgerald

When Eleanor's arm touched his he felt his hands grow cold with deadly fear lest he should lose the shadow brush with which his imagination was painting wonders of her. He watched her from the corners of his eyes as ever he did when he walked with her — she was a feast and a folly and he wished it had been his destiny to sit forever on a haystack and see life through her green eyes.

If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.

We are all queer fish, queerer behind our faces and voices than we want any one to know or than we know ourselves.