It actually was as though some wonderful, magnetic thing was making his veins throb and every nerve tingle and sing.
"It beats me," he said to himself fifty times that day.

He had never been in love.

He did not know what it was like, except that he had seen it make men do silly things, just as drink did.

He did not know whether he was in love or not.

It was absurd that a man should be in love with a face at a window--a face with the beauty of a ghost rather than of a real live woman.
Orlando had little evil in his nature; his eyes did not look towards Tralee as did Burlingame's eyes.