"He do ride like fire every day to Pig's Snout," naming the highest hill in the neighbourhood, "and stand there and stare, never movin', like a mad 'un.

And then hoam agin all slack as if he'd been beaten in a race by somebody." "There is no woman in that!" mused the baronet.

"He would have ridden back as hard as he went," reflected this profound scientific humanist, "had there been a woman in it.

He would shun vast expanses, and seek shade, concealment, solitude.

The desire for distances betokens emptiness and undirected hunger: when the heart is possessed by an image we fly to wood and forest, like the guilty." Adrian's report accused his pupil of an extraordinary access of cynicism.
"Exactly," said the baronet.