The words were hers; she had written them; almost by a sort of anticipation, he imagined; for he at once fell into the mood they suggested, and had a full crop of the 'bare dark outlines' of thoughts coloured by his particular form of passion.
Diana had impressed him powerfully when she set him swallowing and assimilating a sentence ethereally thin in substance of mere sentimental significance, that he would antecedently have read aloud in a drawing-room, picking up the book by hazard, as your modern specimen of romantic vapouring.

Mr.Dacier however was at the time in observation of the towers of Caen, fresh from her presence, animated to some conception of her spirit.

He drove into the streets, desiring, half determining, to risk a drive back on the morrow.
The cold light of the morrow combined with his fear of distressing her to restrain him.

Perhaps he thought it well not to risk his gains.

He was a northerner in blood.