It thrilled me to feel even the suggestion of that ineffable contact.

Her breath was sweet--sweet as the breath of a calf, sweet as the whiff of a summer breeze across beds of mignonette.

How could anyone believe for a moment that such sweet breath could come from the lips of the dead--the dead _in esse_ or _in posse_--that corruption could send forth fragrance so sweet and pure?
It was with satisfied happiness that, as I looked at her from my stool, I saw the dancing of the flames from the beech-logs reflected in her glorious black eyes, and the stars that were hidden in them shine out with new colours and new lustre as they gleamed, rising and falling like hopes and fears.

As the light leaped, so did smiles of quiet happiness flit over her beautiful face, the merriment of the joyous flames being reflected in ever-changing dimples.
At first I was a little disconcerted whenever my eyes took note of her shroud, and there came a momentary regret that the weather had not been again bad, so that there might have been compulsion for her putting on another garment--anything lacking the loathsomeness of that pitiful wrapping.

Little by little, however, this feeling disappeared, and I found no matter for even dissatisfaction in her wrapping.