Her training warned her of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence.

She was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.
"As I was saying--what was I saying ?" She broke off abruptly and laughed merrily at her predicament.
"You was saying that this man Swinburne failed bein' a great poet because--an' that was as far as you got, miss," he prompted, while to himself he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little thrills crawled up and down his spine at the sound of her laughter.

Like silver, he thought to himself, like tinkling silver bells; and on the instant, and for an instant, he was transported to a far land, where under pink cherry blossoms, he smoked a cigarette and listened to the bells of the peaked pagoda calling straw-sandalled devotees to worship.
"Yes, thank you," she said.

"Swinburne fails, when all is said, because he is, well, indelicate.

There are many of his poems that should never be read.