Confession

— I only know that I love you!
— That's your misfortune.

“Scarlett, you do like me, don’t you?”
“Well, sometimes,” she answered cautiously.“When you aren’t acting like a varmint.”
“I think you like me because I am a varmint."

I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether.

And apologies, once postponed, became harder and harder to make, and finally impossible.

There is a luxury in self-reproach.When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us.It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.

It was a confession.Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me.Perhaps one should never put one's worship into words.

...it's amazing what a woman will read into it if you by accident say, I love you. Ten times out of ten, a guy means I love this.

Why should I be ashamed to own it? I love him, that's plain. I love him. It's like a millstone tied round my neck, it's dragging me down to the bottom, but I love my stone and can't live without it.