"Oh, my poor hair!"

"Poor? It looks like a gold mine." Then: "I wish you would read to me.
No; nothing recent or superficial. Something from the old, cast-iron
writers who knew how to use thumb screws and rack. There's something
wholesome in them; something you buck up against. They make you writhe
and groan, but they leave you with the thought that--you've lived through
something."

Again, another day, after a bad night:

"I think you'd better go into the next room, Miss Glynn, and take a nap.
I'd feel less brutally selfish if I could see your eyes calmer. Besides,
being shut away here from all I'm dying to have makes an idiot of me. If
you stay any longer, looking at me with those queer eyes of yours, I may
break down and tell you all about it, just for the dangerous joy of
easing my own soul by dumping a load on yours. Good God! Miss Glynn,
such women as you should not be nurses; it isn't fair. I'd give--let me
see--well, I'd give six months of my life--since Hapgood says I stand a
fair chance for ninety years--to talk to you, man to woman, and get your
point of view--about something. There are moments, after a bad night,
when I think you women haven't had all they say you should have had. We
men have been too blindly sure we could play your game as well as our
own. Run now! If you stay another minute I'll regret it, and so will
you."

"Shall I shake your pillow before I go, Mr. Huntter?"

"Yes. Thank you. You manage to shake more whim-whams out of the creases
than you know."