And, strangely enough, it seemed to me that in this very calm and benignity consisted the secret of the dread which the countenances inspired.

They seemed as void of the lines and shadows which care and sorrow, and passion and sin, leave upon the faces of men, as are the faces of sculptured gods, or as, in the eyes of Christian mourners, seem the peaceful brows of the dead.
I felt a warm hand on my shoulder; it was the child's.

In his eyes there was a sort of lofty pity and tenderness, such as that with which we may gaze on some suffering bird or butterfly.

I shrank from that touch--I shrank from that eye.

I was vaguely impressed with a belief that, had he so pleased, that child could have killed me as easily as a man can kill a bird or a butterfly.