Strange longings, freaks of the blood and brain, stirred within her at this bursting of the leaf.

They led her into Camden Road, into the High Street, to the great shops where the virginal young fashions and the artificial flowers are.

At this season Hunter's window blooms out in blouses of every imaginable colour and texture and form.
There was one, a silk one, of so discreet and modest a mauve that you could have called it lavender.

To say that it caught Miss Quincey's eye would be to wrong that maidenly garment.

There was nothing blatant, nothing importunate in its behaviour.