They are like a shrouded corpse.
They keep their heads always turned down to the grave.

It is ill-luck to bring them where there is life and love and warmth.

It will do you no harm to mind me; so be said, Ducie.

Besides, I wouldn't pull them anyway.

There was little Grace Lewthwaite, she was always gathering the poor, innocent flowers just to fling them on the dusty road to be trodden and trampled to pieces; well, before she was twelve years old, she faded away too.