Thy bosom is endeard with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposd dead,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought burid.
Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.
She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it has to
tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses but moving also toward a new sun.
– What do we think of the boy?... Is he a captive like Smee in Nicholas Nickleby?... He looks lonely.
– You don't think he'll try to call?
– Maybe. He has a secret! A tragic, European secret.
– He's had no upbringing at all, they say. He was reared in Italy among artists and vagrants.
– Doesn't he have a noble brow? If I were a boy, I'd want to look just like that. Imagine, giving up Italy to come live with that awful old man!
– Jo, please don't say "awful". It's slang.
– I'd be terrified to live with him.