She is brimming over with affection, and must speak it or die, while Gerald is colder than stone,--than ice.
She is so cold she burns.

She reminds one of stars in mid-winter, of icicles in the moonlight, of any thing eminently frigid and brilliant and remote.

I daresay, despite all her beauty and her talent and even with her wealth thrown in, she will have comparatively few lovers, yet those few will be truer to her through all her coldness and her disfavor than the lovers of many a sweeter girl.

Did I say Phebe was one in a thousand?
Well Miss Vernor is one in nine hundred and ninety-nine,--or one in ten thousand,--I don't know which." "You said Phebe was the better worth loving of the two," said Mrs.
Whittridge, coming to walk up and down the room with him and clasping her hands over his arm.

"I used to think,--I fancied you cared for the child,--that you would care for her." Denham stood still and faced his sister very gravely, "I was growing to care for her, Soeur Angelique," he said.