It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.

A man's mind must be continually expanding and shrinking between the whole human horizon and the horizon of an object-glass.

They stopped and looked at each other. She knew, only when he did it, that she had known he would. He seized her, she felt her lips in his mouth, felt her arms grasping him in violent answer...

Destiny stands by sarcastic with our dramatis personæ folded in her hand.

Written By George Eliot

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