No reminiscence could stand before the force of passion in possession.

It purified; it destroyed; it built up in three days its own inviolable memory.
And Anne, with the best will in the world, had had no power to undo its work in him.
In herself, too, below her kindling spiritual consciousness, in the unexplored depth and darkness of her, its work remained.
Majendie was unaware how far he had become another man and she another woman.

He was merely alive to the unusual and agreeable excitement of wooing his own wife.

There was a piquancy in the experiment that appealed to him.

Her new coldness called to him like a challenge.