“At sixty, I worshiped her with the volcanic ardour of eighteen. All the gold of my rich nature was poured hopelessly at her feet. My wife – poor angel! – my wife, who adores me, got nothing but the shillings and the pennies. Such is the Work, such Man, such Love. What are we (I ask) but puppets in a show-box? Oh, omnipotent Destiny, pull our strings gently! Dance us mercifully off our miserable little stage!”

“What are we (I ask) but puppets in a show-box? Oh, omnipotent Destiny, pull our strings gently! Dance us mercifully off our moserable little stage!”

“Annie is my wife, and she will remain wi' me as my wife, subject only to my rule. I will suffer no man to dishonor her or lay hand upon her so long as I live.”

“It all goes back and back," Tyrion thought, "to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance in our steads.”

“This is just a little love song I for my wife. Or for everybody who is going to listen now, but I wrote it for my wife.”

“How can I bribe my tongue to speak as truth the things my heart so contradicts. Attach to me then your strings and pull and I shall dance and be your puppet…for a time”