"I thought you shrank from giving pain always: to me it's the unforgivable sin." "To me, also," he rejoined instantly, "intellectually one may understand it; but in reality it's horrible.

I want my pleasure unembittered by any drop of pain.

That reminds me: I read a terrible, little book the other day, Octave Mirbeau's 'Le Jardin des Supplices'; it is quite awful, a _sadique_ joy in pain pulses through it; but for all that it's wonderful.

His soul seems to have wandered in fearsome places.

You with your contempt of fear, will face the book with courage--I--" "I simply couldn't read it," I replied; "it was revolting to me, impossible--" "A sort of grey adder," he summed up and I nodded in complete agreement.
I passed the next winter on the Riviera.