She could love and she could suffer, and if need be, she could dare or die.

It was to be read upon that lovely brow and face, and in the depths of those grey eyes--that is, by those to whom the book of character is open, and who wish to study it.
But Beatrice was not thinking of her loveliness as she gazed into the water.

She knew that she was beautiful of course; her beauty was too obvious to be overlooked, and besides it had been brought home to her in several more or less disagreeable ways.
"Seven years," she was thinking, "since the night of the 'death fog;' that was what old Edward called it, and so it was.

I was only so high then," and following her thoughts she touched herself upon the breast.
"And I was happy too in my own way.

Why can't one always be fifteen, and believe everything one is told ?" and she sighed.