Jane's delight was as simple as the language in which she was wont to express herself.

She felt infinitely more than Pennyloaf, for instance, would have done under the circumstances; but her joy consisted, in the main, of a satisfaction of pure instincts and a deep sense of gratitude to those who made her life what it was.

She could as little have understood Sidney's mind at this moment as she could have given an analytic account of her own sensations.

For all that, the two were in profound sympathy; how different soever the ways in which they were affected, the result, as they stood side by side, was identical in the hearts of both.
Sidney began to speak of Michael Snowdon, keeping his voice low, as if in fear of breaking those subtle harmonies wherewith the night descended.
'We must be careful not to over-tire him, He looked very pale when he went upstairs.

I've thought lately that he must suffer more than he tells us.' 'Yes, I'm afraid he often does,' Jane assented, as if relieved to speak of it.