It had been cut from the head of a man, who, unconscious, simple as a child, lived out the law of his nature, and set the world at defiance,--Bysshe Shelley.
The Doctor, talking to her father, watched the girl furtively, took in every point, as one might critically survey a Damascus blade which he was going to carry into battle.

There was neither love nor scorn in his look,--a mere fixedness of purpose to make use of her some day.

He talked, meanwhile, glancing at her now and then, as if the subject they discussed were indirectly linked with his plan for her.

If it were, she was unconscious of it.

She sat on the wooden step of the porch, looking out on the melancholy sweep of meadow and hill range growing cool and dimmer in the dun twilight, not hearing what they said, until the sharpened, earnest tones roused her.
"You will fail, Knowles." It was her father who spoke.
"Nothing can save such a scheme from failure.