An unknown man in a lonely place is a permitted object of fear to a young woman privately bred.

There was literally, in the ebbing . . . an extraordinarily sweet sadness.

How on the other hand could I make a reference without a new plunge into the hideous obscure?

Oh, it was a trap — not designed but deep — to my imagination, to my delicacy, perhaps to my vanity; to whatever in me was most excitable.

It's beyond everything. Nothing at all that I know touches it.

But these fancies were not marked enough not not to be thrown off, and it is only in the light, or the gloom, I should rather say, of other and subsequent matters that they now come back to me.

It was the first time, in a manner, that I had known space and air and freedom, all the music of summer and all the mystery of nature.

The day lingered and the last calls of the last birds sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees.

But I was to be later on so much more overwhelmed that this mere dawn of alarm was a comparatively human chill.