The countess was not so much a persuasive lady as she was, in her breath and gaze, a sweeping and a wafting power.

After a short argument, he had the sense of hanging like a bank detached to fatality of motion by the crack of a landslip, and that he would speedily be on his manhood to volunteer for the terrible work.
He addressed the mother.

Her eyes whitened from their red at his first word of laying hot iron on the child: she ran out with the wild woman's howl to her neighbours.
'Poor mother!' Carinthia sighed.

'It may last a year in the child's body, and one day he shudders at water.

Father saw a bitten man die.
I could fear death with the thought of that poison in me.