Her condemnation to perpetual widowhood angered him, as at an unrighteous decree.

The sharp sweet bloom of her beauty, fresh in swarthiness, under the whipping Easter, cried out against that loathed inhumanity.

Or he made it cry.
Being a stranger to the jealousy of men, he took the soft assurance that he was preferred above them all.

Competitors were numerous: not any won her eyes as he did.

She revealed nothing of the same pleasures in the shining of the others touched by her magical wand.