Why, what's the matter wi' the poor child?" she demanded of Jamie. "Has she had an accident o' some sort?"  "No, it's only she's married me," he said, "though if ye care to call it an accident, ye may.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

No one but you can figure out your worth.

Salvarea omului atârnă de un capăt de aţă, de un strigăt de iubire.

Written By Nikos Kazantzakis

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