The dragon nodded good-bye, and disappeared into its home, a low tunnel-like barn, evidently built specially for it, with a door at each end, and a conveniently placed chimney which enabled it to breathe enough fire to cook its meals without suffocating itself.
Sarah Brown never saw the dragon again, but it stayed always in her memory as a puzzled soul born tragically out of its time, a shorn lamb, so to speak, to whom the wind had not been sufficiently tempered.
Now this ride home, through the Enchanted Forest, on a tall horse, with Richard walking beside her, was the most perfect hour of Sarah Brown's life.
The Enchanted Forest is only an accumulation of dreams, and from every traveller through it it exacts toll in the shape of a dream.

By way of receipt, to every traveller it gives a darling memory that neither death nor hell nor paradise can efface.
Sarah Brown knew that her dream and Richard's could never meet.

The fact that he was thinking of some one else all the way home was not hidden from her.

But she was a person used to living alone, she could enjoy quite lonely romances, and never even envy real women, whose romances were always made for two.

She was not a real woman, she was morbidly bodiless.