What business had Ralph to write to her?
Did she not belong to Richard Feverel?
He read the words again and again: Clare Doria Forey.

Why, Clare was the name he liked best--nay, he loved it.
Doria, too--she shared his own name with him.

Away went his heart, not at a canter now, at a gallop, as one who sights the quarry.

He felt too weak to pull.

Clare Doria Forey--oh, perfect melody! Sliding with the tide, he heard it fluting in the bosom of the hills.
When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom occurs that the Fates are behindhand in furnishing a temple for the flame.
Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by the thunder below, lilies, golden and white, were swaying at anchor among the reeds.
Meadow-sweet hung from the banks thick with weed and trailing bramble, and there also hung a daughter of earth.