Men kiss us when we are happy, and we kiss them when they are unhappy." Wilfrid was perhaps incompetent to test the truth of this profound aphoristic remark, delivered with the simplicity of natural conviction.
The narrative had, to his thinking, quite released from him his temporary subjection to this little lady's sway.

All that he felt for her personally now was pity.

It speaks something for the strength of the sentiment with which he had first conceived her, that it was not pelted to death, and turned to infinite disgust, by her potatoes.

For sentiment is a dainty, delicate thing, incapable of bearing much: revengeful, too, when it is outraged.

Bruised and disfigured, it stood up still, and fought against them.