Many a time since have I noticed, in persons of Ginevra Fanshawe's light, careless temperament, and fair, fragile style of beauty, an entire incapacity to endure: they seem to sour in adversity, like small beer in thunder.

The man who takes such a woman for his wife, ought to be prepared to guarantee her an existence all sunshine.
Indignant at last with her teasing peevishness, I curtly requested her "to hold her tongue." The rebuff did her good, and it was observable that she liked me no worse for it.
As dark night drew on, the sea roughened: larger waves swayed strong against the vessel's side.

It was strange to reflect that blackness and water were round us, and to feel the ship ploughing straight on her pathless way, despite noise, billow, and rising gale.

Articles of furniture began to fall about, and it became needful to lash them to their places; the passengers grew sicker than ever; Miss Fanshawe declared, with groans, that she must die.
"Not just yet, honey," said the stewardess.

"We're just in port." Accordingly, in another quarter of an hour, a calm fell upon us all; and about midnight the voyage ended.
I was sorry: yes, I was sorry.