God bless you, my daughter! You have given me faith in your sex.
I have been a lonely man; a boughless, leafless trunk, shaken by the winter winds.

But _you_ are my niece.

_You_ know how to be faithful.

I am proud of you! Henceforth I call you my daughter.

If you _were_ my daughter, you would be to me all that Margaret Roper was to Sir Thomas More." And the shaggy man of egotistic and pedantic speech, but of womanly sensibilities, was weeping.
The reviving Julia begged to know how August was.
"Ah, constant heart! And he is constant as you are.