"It was not exactly a compliment; it was an unpremeditated monody on the death of this day, which has flown too soon."
"You are very ready with your monody; it yet lacks three or four hours of sunset, when one might probably begin to lament. I am enjoying it all too much to have a regret."
"Do you know, I thought you were not enjoying it—the journey, I mean?
You have not spoken a hundred words since we left Geneva."
"That was a proof of my perfect enjoyment, as you would know if you
knew me better. Fine scenery always affects me like music, and, with
Jessica, 'I am never merry when I hear sweet music.' Besides, Mr.
Lynde, I was forming a plan."
"A plan?"
"A dark conspiracy"—
"Is the spirit of Lucretia Borgia present?"
—"in which you are to be chief conspirator, Mr. Lynde."
"Miss Denham, the person is dead, either by steel or poison; it is all one to me—I am equally familiar with both methods."
As the girl lifted up her eyes in a half-serious, half-amused way, and gave him a look in which gentleness and a certain shadow of hauteur were oddly blended, Lynde started in spite of himself. It was the very look of the poor little Queen of Sheba.