But The Cloud Never Comes

Margaret Was Not A Ready Lover, But Where She Loved She Loved Passionately, And With No Small Degree Of Jealousy.

What Other People May Think Of The Rightness Or Wrongness Is Nothing In Comparison To My Own Deep Knowledge, My Innate Conviction That It Was Wrong.

Mr. Thornton Felt That In This Influx No One Was Speaking To Margaret, And Was Restless Under This Apparent Neglect. But He Never Went Near Her Himself; He Did Not Look At Her. Only, He Knew What She Was Doing — Or Not Doing — Better Than Anyone Else In The Room. Margaret Was So Unconscious Of Herself, And So Much Amused By Watching Other People, That She Never Thought Whether She Was Left Unnoticed Or Not.

He Loved Her, And Would Love Her; And Defy Her, And This Miserable Bodily Pain.

Neither Loss Of Father, Nor Loss Of Mother, Dear As She Was To Mr Thornton, Could Have Poisoned The Remembrance Of The Weeks, The Days, The Hours, When A Walk Of Two Miles, Every Step Of Which Was Pleasant, As It Brought Him Nearer And Nearer To Her, Took Him To Her Sweet Presence - Every Step Of Which Was Rich, As Each Recurring Moment That Bore Him Away From Her Made Him Recal Some Fresh Grace In Her Demeanour, Or Pleasant Pungency In Her Character.