Here was one who had gone through waters so deep that she had lost the foibles of sex.

Love to her was only a word of ill omen, a threat on the lips of brutes, an extra battalion of peril in an army of perplexities.

He felt like some homely rustic who finds himself swept unwittingly into the moonlight hunt of Artemis and her maidens.
"He is a romantic," she said.

"I have known so many like him." "He's no that," said Dickson shortly.

"Why he used to be aye laughing at me for being romantic.