“I know I don't look old, but I'm beginning to feel it in my heart... I need a holiday. A very long holiday. And I don't expect I shall return.”

“I am old, Gandalf. I don't look it, but I am beginning to feel it in my heart of hearts. Well-preserved indeed! Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can't be right. I need a change, or something.”

“I deserved a holiday, and I deserved to dispense with the laces and trusses expected of a clergyman’s daughter. I wore my oldest frock, which looked remarkably like a potato sack, and I wore very little beneath. I should never have imagined how lovely that feels. It’s most freeing, and it gives you the delicious sense you’re on your way to moral degeneracy. I shall soon be painting my lips and drinking gin.”

“It's too late. Seventeen-year-olds don't need fathers.Oh god. I'm thirty-four years old and I need a father. I can't even begin to think what my daughter needs.”

“I feel you in my heart,and I don't even know you.”

“I don't know what this feeling is... I only know that I feel safe in your arms. My heart races every time I see you, I can't catch my breath when I'm around you, and I'm on fire whenever you touch me...”