She is beautiful, her mind is not in fish; her mind grasps the beautiful and the good--she is a companion for princes! What am I that she wastes a thought or a ray of music on me?
Heaven bless her.

She reads our best authors, and never forgets a word; and she tells me beautiful stories--sometimes they make me cry, for her voice is a music that goes straight to my heart." "A woman that does not even wear the clothes of a lady." "It is the only genuine costume in these islands not beneath a painter's notice." "Look at me, Charles; at your mother." "Yes, mother," said he, nervously.
"You must part with her, or kill me." He started from his seat and began to flutter up and down the room; poor excitable creature.

"Part with her!" cried he; "I shall never be a painter if I do; what is to keep my heart warm when the sun is hid, when the birds are silent, when difficulty looks a mountain and success a molehill?
What is an artist without love?
How is he to bear up against his disappointments from within, his mortification from without?
the great ideas he has and cannot grasp, and all the forms of ignorance that sting him, from stupid insensibility down to clever, shallow criticism ?" "Come back to common sense," said the old lady, coldly and grimly.
He looked uneasy.

Common sense had often been quoted against him, and common sense had always proved right.
"Come back to common sense.

She shall not be your mistress, and she cannot bear your name; you must part some day, because you cannot come together, and now is the best time." "Not be together?
all our lives, all our lives, ay," cried he, rising into enthusiasm, "hundreds of years to come will we two be together before men's eyes--I will be an immortal painter, that the world and time may cherish the features I have loved.