human
No, sirs, I cannot have the lady dead! That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye, That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)-- That vision of the pale electric sword Angels go armed with--that was not the last O' the lady. Come, I see through it, you find, Know the manoeuvre! Also herself said I had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false? Let me see for myself if it be so!
gpt
Pompilia, there is nothing more exquisite in our literature. It stands alone. Here at last we have the poet who is the Lancelot to Shakspere's Arthur. It takes a supreme effort of genius to be as simple as a child. How marvellously, after the almost sublime hypocrisy of the end of Guido's defence, after the beautiful dignity of Caponsacchi's closing words, culminating abruptly in the heart-wrung cry,
human
O great, just, good God! miserable me!
gpt
I am just seventeen years and five months old, And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks; 'Tis writ so in the church's register, Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names At length, so many names for one poor child, --Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela Pompilia Comparini--laughable!
human
Pompilia. The meeting and the swift uprising of love between Lucy and Richard, in
gpt
The Ordeal of Richard Feveral,