But she had started him thinking and he believed she was partly right.

He felt like a factory-owner who after accusing a clerk of dishonesty finds that his own son, in the office, is changing the books once a week.

His poor, mistreated will that he had been holding up to the scorn of himself and his friends, stood before him innocent, and his judgment walked off to prison with the unconfinable imp, imagination, dancing in mocking glee beside him.

Clara's was the only advice he ever asked without dictating the answer himself--except, perhaps, in his talks with Monsignor Darcy.
How he loved to do any sort of thing with Clara! Shopping with her was a rare, epicurean dream.

In every store where she had ever traded she was whispered about as the beautiful Mrs.Page.
"I'll bet she won't stay single long." "Well, don't scream it out.