Already he was a little ashamed of himself; he was experiencing again the feeling which had come over him after his first speech to a political meeting.

As he went home that night, a demon in his head kept crying 'Clap-trap! clap-trap!' and there was no silencing the voice.

He had talked to the intelligence of the mob.

Now his talk had been addressed to--the representatives of the mob; if the demon did not cry so loudly, it was only because he was weary of his thankless task.
Beatrice was a superb coquette--but only for the man she loved.

For these Sunday afternoons she attired herself divinely; Wilfrid had learnt to expect a new marvel at each of his comings.