The one beloved! She had not known love; she was in her five-and-twentieth year, and love was not only unknown to her, it was shut away from her by the lock of a key that opened on no estimable worldly advantage in exchange, but opened on a dreary, clouded round, such as she had used to fancy it must be to the beautiful creamy circus-horse of the tossing mane and flowing tail and superb step.

She was admired; she was just as much doomed to a round of paces, denied the glorious fling afield, her nature's food.

Hitherto she would have been shamefaced as a boy in forming the word 'love': now, believing it denied to her for good and all--for ever and ever--her bosom held and uttered the word.

She saw the word, the nothing but the word that it was, and she envisaged it, for the purpose of saying adieu to it--good-bye even to the poor empty word.
This condition was attributable to a gentleman's wild rageing with the word, into which he had not infused the mystic spirit.

He poured hot wine and spiced.