He murmured in her ear. “You are Marguerite, for you could fire a man's heart so that he would sell his soul to gain you.”

For water on a heath, where there are scarcely any objects of reflection, has a sheety appearance; yet in such a situation, and towards the close of day, a cheering one.

‘My God, I was a fool to marry you,’ she spat out.[…]‘There was no need,’ she continued slowly, spittingly, deliberately, ‘to throw my father’s gold cuff-links in the Thames.’

The pewter plates on the dresser / Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.