Doron's toothache was much better, thank you; yes, the stuff had done it a lot of good; she wouldn't want any more, she thought.
— from Head of the Lower School by Dorothea Moore

The sky overhead had become a vast lift of perishing yellow—a spent wave of daffodil by the north and by the south; westward, of lemon, deepening into a luminous orange glow shot with gold and crimson, and rising as an exhalation from hollow cloud-sepulchres of amethyst, straits of scarlet, and immeasurable spaces of dove-grey filled with shallows of the most pale sea-green.
— from Pharais; and, The Mountain Lovers by William Sharp