The worst thing about loneliness is that it brings one face to face with oneself.

— Mary Balogh

This boy," he said, indicating the paintings with one sweep of his arms, "was romantic. He thought that it was beauty that bound everything together. And for him, it was true. Life had been beautiful for him. He was very young. He knew very little of life. Furthermore, he saw beauty, but he did not feel any true passion. How could he? He did not know. He had not really encountered the force of beauty's opposite."" Are you more cynical now, then?" she asked him." Cynical," he frowned, "No, not that. I know that there is an ugly side of life-and not just human life. I know that everything is not simply beautiful. Furthermore, I am not a romantic as this boy was. But I am not a cynic either. There is something enduring in all life, Anne, something tough. Something. Something terribly weak yet incredibly powerful...

— Mary Balogh

Tonight he would do anything in the world for her. Tomorrow he would begin to set her free.

— Mary Balogh

Was he a pleasant man hiding behind a mask of seeming carelessness or an unpleasant man hiding behind a mask of charm & smiles? Or like most humans, was he a dizzying mix of contradictory character sticks?

— Mary Balogh

Was memory always as much of a burden as it could sometimes be a blessing.

— Mary Balogh

We are made up of everything we have ever been, Percy. It is the joy and the pain of our individuality. There are no two of us the same.

— Mary Balogh

Why did people assume that the beautiful among them needed nothing but their beauty to bring them happiness? That behind the beauty there was nothing but an empty shell, insensitive shell?

— Mary Balogh

Why do I want to run from happiness?

— Mary Balogh

Why had peace given place so soon to turmoil? To two separate solitudes? Because peace had been without thought? Without...integrity? How could she have felt like that without love? Was love essential? Did it even exist - the love she had dreamed of her life? If it did, it was too late now for her to find it. Must she make do with this instead, then? Only this? Pleasure without love?

— Mary Balogh

Why is it," she asked, snuggling closer, "that I so often imagine myself running away and running free?

— Mary Balogh