Of course, as I've said, you're acting, in your wonderful way, for yourself; and what's for yourself is no more my business--though I may reach out unholy hands so clumsily to touch it--than if it were something in Timbuctoo.
It's only that you don't snub me, as you've had fifty chances to do--it's only your beautiful patience that makes one forget one's manners.

In spite of your patience, all the same," she went on, "you'd do anything rather than be with us here, even if that were possible.
You'd do everything for us but be mixed up with us--which is a statement you can easily answer to the advantage of your own manners.
You can say 'What's the use of talking of things that at the best are impossible ?' What IS of course the use?
It's only my little madness.
You'd talk if you were tormented.

And I don't mean now about HIM.

Oh for him--!" Positively, strangely, bitterly, as it seemed to Strether, she gave "him," for the moment, away.

"You don't care what I think of you; but I happen to care what you think of me.