She was lost in reverie.
"It is a youth like an angel," said she at length, with an air of curious excitement, as if talking to herself.

"His voice is music, but it strikes my soul through and through, and I am frightened and in agony, as if I had been pierced with the flaming sword that waves over the gate of Paradise.

The light of his words makes my sin blacker and more loathsome.

Oh! what crowds there are! How he walks upon a sea of sinners, with their uplifted faces, like waves white with terror! How fierce his denunciation! How sweet the words of promise he speaks! 'The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.'" She had risen from her chair, and stood with her eyes lifted in a singular condition of mental exaltation, which gave a lyrical tone and flow to her words.
"That is Summerfield," said Lawrence Newt.

"Yes, he is a wonderful youth.
I have heard him myself, and thought that I saw the fire of Whitfield, and heard the sweetness of Charles Wesley.