He seemed, to Rosamund Culling, twice older than he was, strangely adept, yet more strangely wise of worldly matters, and eloquent too.

But it was the eloquence of frenzy, madness, in Roland's ear.

The arrogation of a terrible foresight that harped on present and future to persuade him of the righteousness of this headlong proceeding advocated by his friend, vexed his natural equanimity.

The argument was out of the domain of logic.

He could hardly sit to listen, and tore at his moustache at each end.