I would marry her, if I had to bind her hands and feet and carry her to the altar and force the priest at the point of a pistol, which, in all probability, is what you will have to do." "I love her," sullenly.
"Do you know who she is ?" "No." "Would it make any difference ?" "No.

Who is she ?" "She is a woman without conscience; she is a woman who, to gain her miserable ends, will stop neither at falsehood, deceit nor bloodshed.

Do you want me to tell you more?
She is--" "Maurice, tell me nothing which will cause me to regret your friendship.
I love her; she has promised to be my wife." "She will ruin you." "She has already done that," laconically.
"Do you mean to tell me--" "Yes! For the promise of her love I am dishonored.

For the privilege of kissing her lips I have sold my honor.

To call her mine, I would go through hell.