She puts me i' maind on 'em somehow, hangin' on their little thin stalks, so whaite an' tinder.' The poor little thing made her way back, no longer hungering for the cold moist air as a counteractive of inward excitement, but with a chill at her heart which made the outward chill only depressing.

The golden sunlight beamed through the dripping boughs like a Shechinah, or visible divine presence, and the birds were chirping and trilling their new autumnal songs so sweetly, it seemed as if their throats, as well as the air, were all the clearer for the rain; but Caterina moved through all this joy and beauty like a poor wounded leveret painfully dragging its little body through the sweet clover-tufts--for it, sweet in vain.

Mr.
Bates's words about Sir Christopher's joy, Miss Assher's beauty, and the nearness of the wedding, had come upon her like the pressure of a cold hand, rousing her from confused dozing to a perception of hard, familiar realities.

It is so with emotional natures whose thoughts are no more than the fleeting shadows cast by feeling: to them words are facts, and even when known to be false, have a mastery over their smiles and tears.
Caterina entered her own room again, with no other change from her former state of despondency and wretchedness than an additional sense of injury from Anthony.

His behaviour towards her in the morning was a new wrong.
To snatch a caress when she justly claimed an expression of penitence, of regret, of sympathy, was to make more light of her than ever..