I can't love you unless I give you up. — Edith Wharton

In the rotation of crops there was a recognized season for wild oats; but they were not sown more than once.

The worst of doing one's duty was that it apparently unfitted one for doing anything else.

It was the old New York way of taking life "without effusion of blood": the way of people who dreaded scandal more than disease, who placed decency above courage, and who considered that nothing was more ill-bred than "scenes," except the behaviour of those who gave rise to them.