Character: Philip Ashley

When people die, the bitterness goes away with them.

If a person is looking for warmth, rest, ease that pleases the eye, it is all he can get from your own home, if you really love him.

- I can't hate a woman that does not exist.
- But I exist!
- You are the woman I hated. And that's it.

I took both letters and threw them into the fire.
And it is useless, - she said, - we both remember what he said.
- I can forget - I said - if you, too, will forget. The fire has a special cleansing force. There is nothing left. Ashes don't count.

In her eyes shone the will, but not an overwhelming and powerful, and hidden, calm, as if she had the gift to read in my heart and realizing that resistance is not broken, knowing the cause, urged me to continue.

She was young, no older than nineteen, but her face froze the seal of eternity, a disturbing memory, as if in her supple body was inhabited by the ancient as the world, the undying soul; the darkness of the times I watched those eyes, they've beheld the life that they have become indifferent to it.

The fact is that, no matter how bitter life, have to live. But here is the question.

Isn't it strange that in moments of life shocks our thoughts suddenly turn to the child?

In the old days criminals were hanged at the crossroads of Four Roads.
But that was long ago. Now the killer pays for his crime in Bodmin on the basis of the verdict rendered by the jury. Of course, if your conscience won't kill him before.

... There is nothing so self-destructive, no sense is as despicable as jealousy.