How pleasant was that impersonal humor which made her superior to other wives! "You--nomadic?
How ?" "Mother travels unceasingly from place to place, person to person, thing to thing.

I travel unceasingly from motive to motive, mind to mind; my native air is also desert air--hence the sterility of my work." Flora rose, but her eyebrows descended.
"Your work," she said, "is not sterile." "That, my dear," said Felix, "is prejudice." And perceiving that she was going to kiss him, he waited without annoyance.

For a woman of forty-two, with two children and three books of poems--and not knowing which had taken least out of her--with hazel-gray eyes, wavy eyebrows darker than they should have been, a glint of red in her hair; wavy figure and lips; quaint, half-humorous indolence, quaint, half-humorous warmth--was she not as satisfactory a woman as a man could possibly have married! "I have got to go down and see Tod," he said.

"I like that wife of his; but she has no sense of humor.

How much better principles are in theory than in practice!" Flora repeated softly, as if to herself: "I'm glad I have none." She was at the window leaning out, and Felix took his place beside her.