Bend your head down, and lay your lips on mine once.

You are my own!--death is sweeter than life!" And before sunrise he died.
Some shadow from that fatal and tragic midnight marriage rested on her still.

Though she was blameless, some vague remorse ever haunted her; though she had been so wholly guiltless of it, this death for her sake ever seemed in some sort of her bringing.

Men thought her only colder, only prouder; but they erred.

She was one of those women who, beneath the courtly negligence of a chill manner, are capable of infinite tenderness, infinite nobility, and infinite self-reproach.
A great French painter once, in Rome, looking on her from a distance, shaded his eyes with his hand, as if her beauty, like the sun dazzled him.