"They would sooner have walked on red-hot ploughshares themselves than let her." "Her father is getting quite an old man," Norman Lloyd said, with no apparent relevancy, as if he were talking to himself.
All the time Cynthia Lennox had been quietly sitting at the head of the table.

When the rest of the company had gone, and she and Risley were alone, seated in the drawing-room before the parlor fire, for it was a chilly day, she turned her fair, worn face towards him on the crimson velvet of her chair.

"Do you know why I did not speak and tell them where the child was that time ?" she asked.
"Because of your own good sense ?" "No; because of you." He looked at her adoringly.

She was older than he, her beauty rather recorded than still evident on her face; she had been to him from the first like a fair, forbidden flower behind a wall of prohibition, but nothing could alter his habit of loving her.
"Yes," said she.

"It was more on your account than on my own; confession would be good for the soul.