Explore "Prisoners" by Mary Cholmondeley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
There is no wild wind in his soul, / No strength of flood or fire; / He knows no force beyond control, / He feels no deep desire. / He knows no altitudes above, / No passions elevate; / All is but mockery of love, / And mimicry of hate. / -- EDGAR VINE HALL.
The morning after the storm Wentworth was sitting in the library at Barford, looking out across the garden to the down. Behind the down lay Priesthope, where Fay was.