But what is butterfly or beetle compared with the chiselled sentences carved out of air to constitute us part owner of the breathing image and spirit of an adored fair woman?
We repeat them, and the act of repeating them makes her come close on ours, by virtue of the eagle thought in the stamped gold of the lines.
Then, though she is not ever to be absolutely ours (and it is an impoverishing desire that she should be), we have beaten out the golden sentence--the essential she and we in one.

But is it so precious after all?
A suspicious ring of an adjective drops us on a sickening descent.
The author dashed at his book, examined, approved, keenly enjoyed, and he murderously scratched the adjective.

She stood better without it, as a bright planet star issuing from clouds, which are perhaps an adornment to our hackneyed moon.

This done, he restored the book to his coat's breast-pocket, smiling or sneering at the rolls of bank-notes there, disdaining to count them.

They stuffed an inner waistcoat pocket and his trousers also.