But eager as Kate was for her beauty sleep, the light burned late in her room.

Then, after two prodigious parting kicks, accurately gauged and delivered, the gambler crossed over to the hotel, leaving the garrulous one to pick himself out of the dust, gasping like a chicken with the pip.

[…] an inarticulate, unvirginal Mary in search of a Joseph […]

There breathes no being but has some pretence / To that fine instinct called poetic sense; […] / The freeman, casting with unpurchased hand / The vote that shakes the turrets of the land.