My father’s and my uncle Toby’s hearts yearn’d with ſympathy for the poor fellow’s diſtreſs,—[…]

I was named Euphemia, after my mother's mother. A terrible name, such as nobody has nowadays. At home they called me Phemie, but when I started to work, I called myself Fame. My husband, Dan Casey, called me Fame. Then in a bar of the Shamrock Hotel, years later, after my divorce, when I was going out, a man said to me, Fame, I've been meaning to ask you, just what is it that you are famous for?

He's off the roof now.

“These are the earliest flowers at the Heights,” she exclaimed. “They remind me of soft thaw winds, and warm sunshine, and nearly melted snow. Edgar, is there not a south wind, and is not the snow almost gone?”