"Emilia's? No. Her face reminded me of the sombre—that dull glow of a fire that you leave burning in the grate late on winter nights. Was that natural? It struck me that her dramatic instinct was as much alive as her passion."
"Had she been clumsy, would you not have been less suspicious of her? And if she had only shown the accustomed northern retenue, and merely looked all that she had to say 'preserved her dignity'—our womanly critic would have been completely satisfied."
"But, Merthyr, to parade her feelings, and then to go on appealing!"
"On the principle that she ought to be ashamed of them, she was wrong."
"If you had heard her utter abandonment!"
"I can believe that she did not blush."
"It seems to me to belong to those excesses that prompt—that are in themselves a species of suicide."
"Love is said to be the death of self."
"No; but I must use cant words, Merthyr; I do wish to see modesty. Yes,
I know I must be right."
"There is very little of it to be had in a tropical storm."