She thought that the tragedy of her life was beginning, and, for the first time almost, felt that her existence might have a grave side, the shade of which enveloped and rendered invisible the delicate gradations of custom and punctilio.

Elfride softly opened the drawing-room door and they both went in.

When she had placed the candle on the table, he enclosed her with his arms, dried her eyes with his handkerchief, and kissed their lids.
'Stephen, it is over--happy love is over; and there is no more sunshine now!' 'I will make a fortune, and come to you, and have you.

Yes, I will!' 'Papa will never hear of it--never--never! You don't know him.

I do.
He is either biassed in favour of a thing, or prejudiced against it.
Argument is powerless against either feeling.' 'No; I won't think of him so,' said Stephen.