I'm over my head in love, but it's hopeless, quite hopeless.

I shall never see her again." "I'm sure I'm honoured by your confidence," said Dickson reverently.
The Poet, who seemed to draw exhilaration from the memory of his sorrows, arose and fetched him a clout on the back.

"Don't talk of confidence, as if you were a reporter," he said.

"What about that House?
If we're to see it before the dark comes we'd better hustle." The green slopes on their left, as they ran seaward, were clothed towards their summit with a tangle of broom and light scrub.

The two forced their way through it, and found to their surprise that on this side there were no defences of the Huntingtower demesne.