Recurrent memories of Henry Schoonmaker were the most exciting thing to happen in her conscious mind these days.

Being with Henry doesn't mean you have to give up who you are. Henry doesn't define you.

It had been an awful thing to lose Henry the first time, to matrimony, but to discover what a false front he was capable of was another kind of blow, and it had left her almost speechless. Then there was the fury with herself—for she had known what Henry’s love was, and still she had gone back to suffer a little more at his hands.

They were all dressed in their finest as though life really were some magical stage play in which every moment ought to be illuminated with its own bright spotlight.

It had been too much for Edith to take and she had gone to her room so that her nieces wouldn't see her cry anymore.

We see our sins reflected everywhere: in the pallor of our intimates’ faces, in the scratching of tree branches against windows, in the strange movements of everyday objects. These may be messages from God or tricks of the eye, but in neither case are we permitted to ignore them.