And his was that worst loneliness which would shrink from sympathy.
did not know what to say, since it would not be useful for him to embrace her slippers, and tell her that he would die for her:
He was a quick fellow, and when hot from play, would toss himself in a corner, and in five minutes be deep in any sort of book that he could lay his hands on: if it were Rasselas or Gulliver, so much the better, but Bailey’s Dictionary would do, or the Bible with the Apocrypha in it.
‘That is what I say,’ returned Mrs Mawmsey, who habitually gave weight to her speech by loading her pronouns.
Mr. Casaubon, too, was the centre of his own world; if he was liable to think that others were providentially made for him, and especially to consider them in the light of their fitness for the author of a “Key to all Mythologies,” this trait is not quite alien to us, and, like the other mendicant hopes of mortals, claims some of our pity.
Are you beginning to dislike slang, then?" said Rosamond, with mild gravity. "Only the wrong sort. All choice of words is slang. It marks a class." "There is correct English: that is not slang." "I beg your pardon: correct English is the slang of prigs who write history and essays. And the strongest slang of all is the slang of poets.
1st Gent. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves. 2d Gent. Ay, truly: but I think it is the world That brings the iron.
It is a misfortune, in some senses: I feed too much on the inward sources; I live too much with the dead.
But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.