Some had loved him, report said.

Here were words to say that he loved her.

They might, poor man, be true.

Otherwise she had never been loved.
Memory had of late been paying visits to a droopy plant in the golden summer drought on a gorgeous mid-sea island, and had taken her on board to refresh her with voyages, always bearing down full sail on a couple of blissful schools, abodes of bloom and briny vigour, sweet merriment, innocent longings, dreams the shyest, dreams the mightiest.

At night before sleep, at morn before rising, often during day, and when vexed or when dispirited, she had issued her command for the voyage.