"Briar: "So I guess I was the last to know." Rosethorn: "Of course you are. You're a man, aren't you?"

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Preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms - bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers.

— Anne Bronte