Dusenberry was too long and too--well, too extraordinary for daily use abroad.
"P'r'aps it is," she assented meekly; "and still, Mis' Beresford, when a man's name is Dusenberry, you can't hardly blame him for wanting his child to be called by it, can you ?" This was incontrovertible, and I asked her middle name.

It was Frances, and that was too like Francesca.
"You don't like the sound o' Benella ?" she inquired.

"I've always set great store by my name, it is so unlikely.

My father's name was Benjamin and my mother's Ella, and mine is made from both of 'em; but you can call me any kind of a name you please, after what you've done for me," and she closed her eyes patiently.
'Call me Daphne, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only, only call me thine,' which is exactly what we are not ready to do, I thought, in a poetic parenthesis.
Benella looks frail and yet hardy.

She has an unusual and perhaps unnecessary amount of imagination for her station, some native common-sense, but limited experience; she is somewhat vague and inconsistent in her theories of life, but I am sure there is vitality, and energy too, in her composition, although it has been temporarily drowned in the Atlantic Ocean.