She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a first breath of freedom.
It was not despair; but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled.
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings.
Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love.