She thought and hoped she was herself now.
Alarm lest this might be another of her moods, victim of moods as she had latterly been, was a shadow armed with a dart playing round her to find the weak spot.

It sprang from her acknowledged weakness of nature; and she cast about for how to keep it outside her and lean on a true though a small internal support.

She struck at her desires, to sound them.
They were yesterday for love; partly for distinction, for a woman having beauty to shine in the sphere of beauty; but chiefly to love and be loved, therefore to live.

She had yesterday read letters of a man who broke a music from the word--about as much music as there is in a tuning--fork, yet it rang and lingered; and he was not the magical musician.

Now those letters were as dust of the road.