Phoebe Marks was a person who never lost her individuality. Silent and self-constrained, she seemed to hold… — Mary Elizabeth Braddon

He forgot that love, which is a madness, and a scourge, and a fever, and a delusion, and a snare, is also a mystery, and very imperfectly understood by everyone except the individual sufferer who writhes under its tortures.

The wind came whistling up across the frosty open country, and through the leafless woods, and rattled fiercely at the window-frames.

Seated in the embrasure of this window, my lady was separated from Robert Audley by the whole length of the room, and the young man could only catch an occasional glimpse of her fair face, surrounded by its bright aureole of hazy, golden hair.