All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.
Greville Fane's French and Italian were droll; the imitative faculty had been denied her, and she had an unequalled gift, especially pen in hand, of squeezing big mistakes into small opportunities. She knew it, but she didn't care; correctness was the virtue in the world that, like her heroes and heroines, she valued least.
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earthAnd danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirthOf sun-split clouds--and done a hundred thingsYou have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swungHigh in the sunlit silence, Hov'ring there,I've chased the shouting wind along, and flungMy eager craft through footless halls of air.Up, up the long, delirious, burning blueI've topped the windswept heights with easy graceWhere never lark, or even eagle flewAnd, while with silent, lifting mind I've trodThe high untrespassed sanctity of space,Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.