But she had flung him to earth so heavily that he had made a hole in it out of which he could never climb.

There he lay damned, hers the glory of destroying him--he hoped she was proud of her handiwork.

That was one Thomas Sandys, the one, perhaps, who put on the velvet jacket in the morning.
But it might be number two who took that jacket off at night.

He was a good-natured cynic, vastly amused by the airs this little girl put on before a man of note, and he took a malicious pleasure in letting her see that they entertained him.

He goaded her intentionally into expressions of temper, because she looked prettiest then, and trifled with her hair (but this was in imagination only), and called her a quaint child (but this was beneath his breath).