Though man love the sex, woman loves only the individual; and the more she loves him, the more cold she is to the species.

For the passion of woman is in the sentiment--the fancy--the heart.

It rarely has much to do with the coarse images with which boys and old men--the inexperienced and the worn-out--connect it.
But Alice, though her blood ran cold at her terrible father's language, saw in his very design the prospect of escape.

In an hour of drunkenness he thrust her from the house, and stationed himself to watch her--it was in the city of Cork.

She formed her resolution instantly--turned up a narrow street, and fled at full speed.