. . . the superiority of some infinite reserve and the mystery of some infinite sadness.

She was not just a wild creature, she was a wounded creature.

Mary did not believe in analysing herself, and she had left vague the notion that sometimes came to her that this anxious unfulfilled sort of loving was the only kind of which she was capable.

He was attentive but impersonal, and esteemed rather than loved.

Since parting company with the priesthood he could almost be said to have become demoralised. Almost, for somehow he remained someone, a slightly mysterious someone, whom they respected, and they gave him the benefit of every doubt.