A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light which, showing the way, forbids it.

It was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtains drawn and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the room was full of deep shadows.

He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.

The delicious breath of rain was in the air.

…there would be no powerful will binding hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow creature…And yet she had loved him- sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being.

Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love.

She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women.