Had they nothing more to say to each other? Their eyes, certainly, were full of more meaningful talk; and as they made themselves utter banalities they sensed the same languor invading them both: it was like a murmur of the soul, deep and continuous, more clearly audible than the sound of their words. Surprised by a sweetness that was new to them, it didn't occur to them to tell each other how they felt or to wonder why. Future joys are like tropic shores: out into the immensity that lies before them they waft their native softness, a fragrant breeze that drugs the traveler into drowsiness and makes him careless of what awaits him on the horizon beyond his view.

In the tragedy in question, for example, he condemned the ideas but admired the style, abhorred the conception but praised all the details, found the character…

He was in agony trying to think of a way of 'declaring himself' to her. He was constantly torn between the fear of offending her and shame at his own cowardice…

Noble characters and pure affections and happy scenes are very comforting things. They're a refuge from life's disillusionments.

It is always observable that silence propagates itself, and that the longer talk has been suspended, the more difficult it is to find any thing to say.

When Silence speaks for Love she has much to say.

Conversation like television set on honeymoon... unnecessary.