It had been charged and emptied since it was in his possession; and it could be charged again.

The thing was a volume as big as the world to study.

For the touch of a finger, one could have its entirely satisfying contents, and fly and be a raven of that night wherein poor Ambrose wanders lost, but cured of human wounds.
He leaned on the churchyard wall, having the graves to the front of eyes bent inward.

They were Protestant graves, not so impressive to him as the wreathed and gilt of those under dedication to Feltre's Madonna.

But whatever they were, they had ceased to nurse an injury or feel the pain for having inflicted it.