What is it, Angel?" she said, starting up. "Have they come for me?" "Yes, dearest," he said. "They have come." "It is as it should be," she murmured. "Angel, I am almost glad—yes, glad! This happiness could not have lasted. It was too much. I have had enough; and now I shall not live for you to despise me!" She stood up, shook herself, and went forward, neither of the men having moved. "I am ready," she said quietly.

All romances end at marriage.

Silence has sometimes a remarkable power of showing itself as the disembodied soul of feeling wandering without its carcase, and it is then more impressive than speech.

Of course poets have morals and manners of their own, and custom is no argument with them.

To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature.

Tis because we be on a blighted star, and not a sound one, isn't it Tess?

Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened.