"I've no idea of what occurred to me--nothing at least but the sense that I had occurred to YOU.

The occurrence is clay in the hands of the potter.
Do with me what you will." "You appreciate everything so wonderfully," Nanda said, "that it oughtn't to be hard for you to appreciate HER.

I do dream so you may save her.

That's why I haven't waited." "The only thing that remains to me in life," he answered, "is a certain accessibility to the thought of what I may still do to figure a little in your eye; but that's precisely a thought you may assist to become clearer.

You may for instance give me some pledge or sign that if I do figure--prance and caracole and sufficiently kick up the dust--your eye won't suffer itself to be distracted from me.