Marcus Clarke

“ Rufus Dawes, gross insolence, refusing to work.—Ah! we must look after you. You are a parson's man now, are you? I'll break your spirit, my man, or I'll—Sylvia!"
"Yes."
"Your friend Dawes is doing credit to his bringing up."
"What do you mean?"
"That infernal villain and reprobate, Dawes. He is fitting himself faster for——"
She interrupted him. "Maurice, I wish you would not use such language. You know I dislike it." She spoke coldly and sadly, as one who knows that remonstrance is vain, and is yet constrained to remonstrate.
"Oh, dear! My Lady Proper! can't bear to hear her husband swear. ”

“ Love had long since died out of their life. The young, impulsive, delicate girl, who had given herself to him seven years before, had been changed into a weary, suffering woman. The wife is what her husband makes her, and his rude animalism had made her the nervous invalid she was. ”

“ I shall have to rest for a day or so."
"Ah, take a spell," said Frere; "you overwork yourself."
North, sitting, gasping and pale, smiles in a ghastly manner. "I—I will. If I do not appear for a week, Mrs. Frere, you will know the reason."
"A week! Surely it will not last so long as that!" exclaims Sylvia.
The ambiguous "it" appears to annoy him, for he flushes painfully, replying, "Sometimes longer. It is, a—um—uncertain," in a confused and shame-faced manner, and is luckily relieved by the entry of Jenkins.
"A message from Mr. Troke, sir."
"Troke! What's the matter now?" ”

“ I have found many French novels of his."
"I thought clergymen never read French novels," said Sylvia, with a smile.
"There are French novels and French novels," said North. "Stupid people confound the good with the bad. I remember a worthy friend of mine in Sydney who soundly abused me for reading 'Rabelais', and when I asked him if he had read it, he said that he would sooner cut his hand off than open it. ”