R. D. Blackmore,
Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
“ Pretty things those primroses.” At once I thought of Lorna Doone, the little maid of six years back, and how my fancy went with her. Could Lorna ever think of me? Was I not a lout gone by, only fit for loach-sticking? Had I ever seen a face fit to think of near her? The sudden flash, the quickness, the bright desire to know one's heart, and not withhold her own from it, the soft withdrawal of rich eyes, the longing to love somebody, anybody, anything, not imbrued with wickedness— My uncle interrupted me, misliking so much silence now, with the naked woods falling over us. ”
