Writing was a trying business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural power over a pen, but in whose hand every pen appeared to become perversely animated, and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and splash, and sidle into corners, like a saddle-donkey. It was very odd, to see what old letter...
It is not a comfortable image, and Charles gets up and walks to the window for light and air, his mind sombre with mute rage. Claire gave him this letter—this letter never burned, much read, and stained here and there with tears—because she deemed it proof—proof of Shelley’s love for her. But to ...
She could only be grateful that they were accorded the luxury of spending that hour alone, without even her sister or Dr Grant to overhear or intercede. It was hardly possible to take in all her brother had to say, and it was many, many minutes before she could form a distinct idea of what had oc...