Her hands were lightly clasped before her like those of Titian's Mater Dolorosa among the Rubens and Tintorettos of the Prado, a lonely figure, whose lot it was to spend her life for others.
Even as she already had done; for thrice she had refused marriages suitable and possible to her.

In each case she had steeled her heart against loving, that she might be all in all to her sister's child and to her father.

There is no habit so powerful as the habit of care of others.

In Faith it came as near being a passion as passion could have a place in her even-flowing blood, under that cool flesh, governed by a heart as fair as the apricot blossoms on the wall in her father's garden.

She had been bitterly hurt in the Meeting-house; as bitterly as is many a woman when her lover has deceived her.