What she wanted from us was neither our flowers nor our francs, but just our youth.

I remember it touched me so.

I would have given her some of mine off my back, if I could.

I had enough and to spare then," Bartley mused, and looked thoughtfully at his cigar.
They were both remembering what the woman had said when she took the money: "God give you a happy love!" It was not in the ingratiating tone of the habitual beggar: it had come out of the depths of the poor creature's sorrow, vibrating with pity for their youth and despair at the terribleness of human life; it had the anguish of a voice of prophecy.

Until she spoke, Bartley had not realized that he was in love.
The strange woman, and her passionate sentence that rang out so sharply, had frightened them both.