“Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. We tolerate you for your genius, that's a fact. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands.
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