I feel the blindness which has crept upon them--those poor women--as you have sown the air with the dust of the passion which you call love.

Oh, you never knew what love meant, my lord! I doubt if, when you lay in your mother's arms, you turned to her with love.

You never did one kindly act for love, no generous thought was ever born in you by love.

Sir, I know it as though it were written in a book; your life has been one long calculation--your sympathy or kindness a calculated thing.
Good-nature, emotion you may have had, but never the divine thing by which the world is saved.

Were there but one little place where that Eden flower might bloom within your heart, you could not seek to ruin that love which lives in mine and fills it, conquering all the lesser part of me.