Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.

To lie is always a necessity for women; above all when they choose to deceive, falsehood becomes vital to them.

How delicious are these implements of torture.

True felicity lies only in the senses, and virtue gratifies none of them.

Happiness is ideal, it is the work of the imagination.

Last night you were, unhinged. You were like some desperate, howling demon. You frightened me . . . Do it again.