'It is my husband.' The soul was in her voice when she said it.
He remembered that it had not ennobled her to him then; had not endeared; was taken for a foreign example of the childish artless, imperfectly suited to our English clime.' The tone of adorable utterances, however much desired, is never for repetition; nor is the cast of divine sweet looks; nor are the particular deeds-once pardonable, fitly pleaded.

A second scaling of her window--no, night's black hills girdle the scene with hoarse echoes; the moon rushes out of her clouds grimacing.

Even Fleetwood's devil, much addicted to cape and sword and ladder, the vulpine and the gryphine, rejected it.
For she had, by singular transformation since, and in spite of a deluging grotesque that was antecedently incredible, she had become a personage, counting her adherents; she could put half the world in motion on her side.

Yell those Welshmen to scorn, they were on a plane finding native ground with as large a body of these English.

His baser mind bowed to the fact.