The swallow flights and the freedom of the sky would be over, and she would either beat her wings hopelessly against the bars, or learn to eat from his hand, to sing presently at his whistle.
Had passion urged her, this hesitancy would have been impossible.

Then she would either have seen none of these things, or, having seen them, she would have dared greatly.

She was too cool, too clear-sighted, perhaps, for a heroine of romance.

The single virtue that has fed vampire-like on the blood of the others, the abject attitude of the heart, the moral chicanery of sex--she would have none of these things.
"I am very fond of him, but I want to live--to live," she said, raising her arms with a free movement to the sky, while she looked after his figure.

"Poor Abel," she added after a moment, "he will never get over it." Then, while the sigh of compassion was still on her lips, she was arrested by a scene which occurred in the sunny meadow.