He did not know what there was under that ivory forehead so splendidly shaped, so gloriously crowned.
He could not tell what were her thoughts, her feelings.

Her replies were reflective, always preceded by a short silence, while he hung on her lips anxiously.

He felt himself in the presence of a mysterious being in whom spoke an unknown voice, like the voice of oracles, bringing everlasting unrest to the heart.
He was thankful enough to sit in silence with secretly clenched teeth, devoured by jealousy--and nobody could have guessed that his quiet deferential bearing to all these grey-heads was the supreme effort of stoicism, that the man was engaged in keeping a sinister watch on his tortures lest his strength should fail him.

As before, when grappling with other forces of nature, he could find in himself all sorts of courage except the courage to run away.
It was perhaps from the lack of subjects they could have in common that Miss Moorsom made him so often speak of his own life.

He did not shrink from talking about himself, for he was free from that exacerbated, timid vanity which seals so many vain-glorious lips.