Sublime

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.

tryst.

Here she trailed off, because Michael was looking at her in an erasing way so that the strength of every word faded once it had entered the area of his auditory range.

ignominy

— The soul is born — he said vaguely — first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.

Every sentence should lead to the next sentence.

Every word is so deep, Leopold.