The men who had made love to her had never been privileged to speak plainly, for she would have none of them, and so they had been obliged to confine themselves to such cunning use of permissible words and phrases as they could command, together with copious quotations from more or less erotic poets.

Moreover, Claudius had never been in a position to speak his heart's fill to her until that last day, when words had played so small a part.
It was a love-letter, at least in part, such as a man might have written a hundred years ago--not such as men write nowadays, thought Margaret; certainly not such as Mr.Barker would write--or could.

But she was glad he had written; and written so, for it was like him, who was utterly unlike any one else.

The letter had come in the morning while Clementine was dressing her, and she laid it on her writing-desk.

But when the maid was gone, she read it once again, sitting by her window, and when she had done she unconsciously held it in her hand and rested her cheek against it.