Aches to construct something ere he die By love I mean the forgetfulness of self Cheapness of this verbiage Delighting in the present moment Distrust of her own feelings to give way to them completely "Each of us," he said, "has a shadow in those places." Fear of meddling too much, of not meddling enough Governed by ungovernable pride Habit of thinking for himself Human heart," he murmured, "is the tomb of many feelings." I never suspected him of goin' to live I will not consent to be a drag on anyone "If I practise hard," he murmured, "I shall master it." Immoral to hurt anybody but himself. Little things are all big with the past Lived in thoughts about events rather than in events themselves Love for open air and facts Low opinion of human nature Man abstracted, faintly contemptuous of other forms of life One's got to draw the line." "Ah!" said Cecilia; "where?" Pabulum of varying theories of future life Pass out of the country of the understanding of the young People do miss things when they are old! Perversity which she found so conspicuous in her servants Placed beyond the realms of want, who speculated in ideas Primeval love of stalking She struggled loyally with her emotion Simple unspiritual natures of delighting in the present moment That other mistress with whom he spent so many evening hours The Old--for whom life had lost its complications The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value They'll soon have no ankles to reveal Thinker meditating upon action Ungovernable itch to be appreciated Unless--unless they closed their ears, and eyes, and noses Wanted to be loved, slowly killing the power of loving When alive, have been served with careless parsimony You must not laugh at life--that is blasphemy "You're worth more," muttered Hilary, "than I can ever give you." Young--to whom everything seemed simple THE PATRICIAN /gutenberg/etext01/ptrcn10.txt PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT: Bertie was standing, more inscrutable and neat than ever, in a perfectly tied cravatte, perfectly cut riding breeches, and boots worn and polished till a sooty glow shone through their natural russet. Not specially dandified in his usual dress, Bertie Caradoc would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse. Or was it some glimmering perception of the old Greek saying--'Character is Fate;' some sudden sense of the universal truth that all are in bond to their own natures, and what a man has most desired shall in the end enslave him? And then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can know, she experienced the worst: She could not cry! "A man who gives advice," he said at last, "is always something of a fool." And in queer, cheery-looking apathy--not far removed perhaps from despair--he sat, watching the leaves turn over and fall. "That's the trouble. He suffers from swollen principles--only wish he could keep them out of his speeches." LINES FROM THE TEXT: