“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of me. I am an Englishwoman.”

“If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good help to you nevertheless And filter and fiber your blood.Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,Missing me one place search another,I stop some where waiting for you”

“Who are you?""I am Death," said the creature. "I thought that was obvious.""But you're so small!""Only because you are small. You are young and far from your Death, September, so I seem as anything would seem if you saw it from a long way off-very small, very harmless. But I am always closer than I appear. As you grow, I shall grow with you, until at the end, I shall loom huge and dark over your bed, and you will shut your eyes so as not to see me.”

“If I am missed it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region.”

“You haven’t missed me for one fucking minute. You have never for one single second in your entire pathetic fucking life missed me. You might have missed fucking with my head, and you might have missed the satisfaction you so clearly got from demolishing me, but those are your emotions you’re missing, not mine. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“You may have married her, but she is mine. Do you think I shall let you take her? She may be ten times your wife, but, by God, you shall never have her.”