So far as I can understand, you quarrelled because neither of you would face matrimony on what you considered an inadequate income.' 'Middle-class respectability--living in Pimlico or further Kensington,' scoffed Biddy.

'Ordering sprats and plaice for dinner and pretending they're soles and whitebait.

Perambulators stuffing up the hall; paying your own books and having your gown made at home! No, thank you.
'Possum skins and a black's gunya--that's Australese for a wigwam, isn't it ?--appeal to me infinitely more.' Mrs Gildea threw up her hands.
'Biddy, you haven't the faintest notion how dull and uncomfortable--how utterly unpoetic--how sordid the life of a struggling bushman can be.' 'No! You know, Joan, I think that it might be perfectly fascinating--if one really cared for the bushman.' 'Really cared! Have you EVER really cared for any man?
COULD you ever really care ?' 'That's what I've been asking myself.

It would have to be someone quite different from all the other men I've liked--something altogether above the ordinary man, to make me REALLY care.' 'You said that Mr Willoughby Maule was different from any man you'd ever met.

Each man you've ever fancied yourself in love with has been different from all the rest.' Lady Bridget laughed rather uneasily.
'How tiresomely exact you are, Joan! Of course, they were different.
Everybody is different from everybody else.