"I laugh, yet your face remains stoic. Pray, how could this be? Is my laugh not your laugh? Do we not interwine like vines and starlets? Are we not of the same, as you have led me to believe?"

"I confess, I cannot share your laughter, which is, indeed, singularly your own; we do not exist - no, not together. It is both a beautiful and tragic thing that I believe you will never understand. No, you cannot understand much. I know this and you know this. I do not feign superiority; it is something that cannot be helped. I have attempted to hide it from you, and whilst I believe very much in your earnest love for me, it is hard to love frail things without breaking them."

"Do you suggest that I am weak? That I am a stupid little thing, that I can accomplish nothing but love akin to a pup onto master in your presence? You, sir, are the misinformed, incompetent one. I know suffering more than any man shall ever know, for I am a woman, and we are complex creatures, born to endure pain - perhaps not on a battlefield, but pain nonetheless. I know terrible things and great things. You have just trascended those very two categories yourself. And while I cannot pretend to know the achings of your bookish, studied heart, I once wished to heal it, to soothe it. I desire this no longer. If you think a brain is how to judge a being, what room is there for character?"

"My dear, character is of little consequence in the prospects of love!"

"And that, my good man, is why you shall never love."