She was the abhorred delusion, who captured him by his nerves, ensnared his word--the doing of a foul witch.

How had it leapt from his mouth?
She must have worked for it.

The word spoken--she must have known it--he was bound, or the detested Henrietta would have said: Not even true to his word! To see her now, this girl, insisting to share his name, for a slip of his tongue, despite the warning sent her through her uncle, had that face much as a leaden winter landscape pretends to be the country radiant in colour.

She belonged to the order of the variable animals--a woman indeed!--womanish enough in that.

There are men who love women--the idea of woman.