When I colour, and when I shade before Miss Oliver, I do not pity myself. I scorn the weakness. I know it is ignoble: a mere fever of the flesh: not, I declare, the convulsion of the soul. _That_ is just as fixed as a rock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea.
Si se me enciende la cara cuando veo a Rosamond no es, como supone usted, por un impulso del alma, sino por una vergonzosa debilidad de la carne.