this amiable woman

p. 66
Henry loved poetry and his mind was filled with the imagery and sublime sentiments of the masters of that art. A poet himself, he turned with disgust from the details of ordinary life. His own mind was all the possession that he prized, beautiful & majestic thoughts the only wealth he coveted—daring as the eagle and as free,

p. 67
common laws could not be applied to him, and while you gazed on him you felt his soul’s spark was more divine—more truly stolen from Apollo’s sacred fire than the glimmering ember that animates other men.

I listened to him with interest for he spoke without presumption or affectation;

If there were ever to be another edition of this book, I should re-write these two first chapters. The incidents are tame [and] ill arranged—the language sometimes childish. They are unworthy of the rest of the narration.