Sublime

Something in her proud, honourable soul had crystallised out hard as rock.

Neither knew that she was more tolerant because she loved him less.

This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side of her love for Morel.

She always felt a mixture of anguish in her love for him.

She was puritan, like her father, high-minded, and really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden softness of this man's sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like the flame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence by thought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something wonderful, beyond her.

love should give a sense of freedom, not of prison.

He always ran away from the battle with himself.

As Mrs. Morel saw him slink quickly through the inner doorway, holding his bundle, she laughed to herself: but her heart was bitter, because she had loved him.

"But if you're a MAN?" she had cried. "Being a man isn't everything," he replied, frowning with puzzled helplessness.