Joan was thinking: ‘She looks like a tree […] it must be the green dress. But her eyes are like water, all greeny and shadowy and deep looking—a tree near a pool, that’s what she’s like, a tall tree. A beech tree? No, that’s too spready—a larch tree, that’s Elizabeth; a larch tree just greening over.'

Most prairie enthusiasts are antiherbicide; some violently so.

If, in the foregoing rapid summary, it has not always been possible to speak with uniform gravity, it is that, to-day, the main issue of Cecilia’s story has become—as the author’s own Captain Aresby would now have said—a little démodé.

O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel / The dint of pity