I knew him to be one Edward Sharpless, and I knew no good of him.

He had been a lawyer in England.

He lay on the very brink of the stream, with one arm touching the water.

Flesh and blood could not resist it, so, assisted by the toe of my boot, he took a cold bath to cool his hot blood.
When he had clambered out and had gone away, cursing, I turned to face her.

She stood against the trunk of a great cedar, her head thrown back, a spot of angry crimson in each cheek, one small hand clenched at her throat.